


Strangers on a Train

by CSIGurlie07



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Stargate: Continuum, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 130,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CSIGurlie07/pseuds/CSIGurlie07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began with a train ride. Jack isn't sure he wants it to end. And he doesn't know why. Set during the vague "One Year" of Continuum. Spoilers abound. Rating may go up later. NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is mostly Teen and Up, but since a bunch of the later chapters probably warrant a Mature rating, the whole thing is Mature this time... Ye Be Warned!

Jack O'Neill really didn't like enclosed spaces.

It had gotten worse after his time in Iraq, but they hadn't ever really been kosher, when he actually stopped to think about it. The only tight space he actually enjoyed was a cockpit, though that was only because the rumble of a jet fighter's engines firing up, and the rush of screaming into the wild blue yonder gave him more freedom than anything on solid ground ever could.

But all cockpits aside, he hated small spaces. Especially small spaces trapped immobile beneath a mile of rock.

Which was why he was pacing the length of a stationary subway train, instead of waiting patiently like all the other passengers. It was currently lying dormant halfway through an underground passage. They'd already been stuck for two hours, and the unfortunate positioning of the tracks prevented secondary transport from moving the passengers. They'd been told to sit back, relax, and wait for repairs to occur.

Needless to say, Colonel Jack O'Neill was not a happy camper.

He'd finally succumbed to his fraying nerves, and pulled his rank out of his back pocket to get special permission to travel between cars. And so far, that seemed to help a little bit. He could breathe, at least, which he couldn't do trapped in a single compartment.

So he walked, slowly, carefully, along the shadowed length of the train. The primary lights had been doused, possibly because of power failure, possibly because of passenger complaint, and most of the passengers he passed were sleeping. He spied some who were reading, and some who were speaking softly to one another, bonding over their mutual misery.

He ignored these. In fact, he ignored most of them, and only glanced at any of them to create a distraction for himself, as something to think about other than the fact he was trapped in a tin can a mile underground.

He was making his way through his fifth car when he nearly tripped over a passenger lying sprawled in the aisle. The snores issuing from the man assured Jack he wasn't dead or injured, and so he simply sidestepped to sidle his way past the obstruction. But as he turned, his eyes caught sight of a passenger sleeping against the wall seats besides the nearest hatch.

Even in the darkened car, he could see the blonde hair, the long legs, and soft cheek of a woman he'd thought he left in the Arctic. She was in civvies, blue jeans and a trim sweater, barely discernable under the coat she was utilizing as a blanket, and her eyes were closed behind the delicate frames perched on her nose. But he still recognized her, and he still felt the unexpected jolt in the pit of his stomach at the familiarity.

It wasn't the familiarity she and her friends had claimed—he didn't know them, and he didn't know her. But everyone in the country knew her face, and even now, it was like staring at the newspaper, her smile gracing the front page for months in the wake of first her promotion and assignment to the mission, and then in her death.

The country had mourned the loss of Mission Commander Carter, who had single-handedly reintroduced the world to the wonders of NASA. It was under her expertise that the dying agency had been revived and rejuvenated, and the world had lauded her for it. But she was dead now, and this woman who wore her face shouldn't be here.

Jack had heard rumors that she and the other two had been put into witness protection, separated and silenced. He knew the reasoning behind it, and he approved of it. He liked his world, and he wanted to keep it. He didn't want any of them in any position to be able to reinstate their own time line, if what they said was even true in the first place.

They were supposed to be kept away from anything that would tempt them, including their respective careers and fields of expertise, prior acquaintances, friends, and family.

So what in the hell was she doing here?

Chicago was his town. The Air Force knew he spent all his off-mission time here. It was where he had grown up, and it was where he had raised his son. It was where his ex-wife had chosen to stay, and it was where Charlie was going to college. It was on every record imaginable, so why, why was this woman on a train bound for his city?

Had she come to seek him out? Had she somehow figured out where he lived, and come to try once more to convince him of her story? He wouldn't put it past her, or either of her compatriots. They were all wild cards, and extremely dangerous ones at that.

Before he could ponder it further, the woman stirred, and a moment later blue eyes blearily blinked their way open. They caught sight of him first, and those eyes focused on him before she so much as glanced at her surroundings. And when her lips spread into an easy, welcoming grin, Jack realized she didn't care where she was.

She had eyes only for him, and the intensity of her warm, blue gaze sent tingles racing up his spine.

"Sir…"

The whisper was soft, inquisitive, but inexplicably happy. And in that moment Jack realized that this Samantha Carter recognized him as well—but she was recognizing him as someone else entirely. In that second in time, she was seeing her Jack O'Neill, and whoever she knew him to be… she loved him.

"Ma'am." Jack's one-word deadpan was all it took to shatter the woman's vision of him. She blinked, and her gaze turned razor-sharp as she searched first him, and then the train around him, for discrepancies. And apparently, she found them, and her eyes darkened at the sudden reality.

She straightened from her slumped position against the partition, running a hand over her suddenly haggard features. The coat slid from her shoulder, and Jack watched its descent over soft curves until it pooled to a rest in her lap.

Blue eyes flashed up at him one last time, but they had lost their warmth.

"O'Neill." Her amended greeting was dull, and decidedly less respectful than her first had been.

It grated, and the officer in him bristled.

"That would be Colonel O'Neill, Miss…" He left the salutation hanging, so she could fill in the blanks of her new identity. She wouldn't be Samantha Carter anymore.

But instead of receiving clarification, an icy glare was sent his way. She leaned towards him, intensity bleeding from her in waves.

Jack swallowed.

"That would be Colonel to you too, O'Neill," came the fierce counter. Blue eyes glittered icily at him. "I have been serving since the day I turned seventeen, and I've spent the past fifteen years facing things you can't even imagine. Don't even think about trying to pull rank on me."

Jack blinked.

He'd forgotten she was military—if she and her friends were telling the truth. And on the verge of a dress down from the woman, he was currently willing to accept that part of their story. Some things you just can't fake.

After a long moment, Jack nodded mutely in acceptance. Almost without thought, he maneuvered himself into the seat adjacent to hers. Her eyes followed him, but she didn't say a word. Once settled, he gazed at her, and she met his stare squarely and without hesitation.

"Let's start over," he began as conversationally as he could. He extended his hand towards her. "Jack O'Neill. Nice to meet yah."

She stared at his hand for a long moment, but eventually grasped it with a strong, firm grip. "Nice to meet you," she returned.

Jack could almost see a smile in her eyes, but a moment later her gaze shuttered once more. And it didn't slip his notice that she didn't offer a name in return.

"So… what're you known as these days?" He figured the straightest inquiries would get the straightest answers. And when she rocked back in her seat, he knew he was right.

"Blaine. Jennifer Blaine." The name rolled off her lips with impeccable ease, but her nose wrinkled in the slightest indication of disgust.

The name might have fit the picture—the dirty blonde hair and the teacher's glasses and everywoman attire—but it wasn't hers. No, her name belonged to a dead woman.

"Well," he said, "it's a pleasure, Ms. Blaine."

This earned him a hard stare. He let the silence linger a minute, before trying again.

"So what brings you to the city?"

He didn't even understand the reason why he was attempting to strike up a conversation with this woman. Just moments ago he had been outraged she was within city limits, and now… Well, now getting away from her was the last thing he wanted to do.

"I live here," she answered.

Jack raised his eyebrows at that. So the Air Force knew she was here. Go figure.

"Well, what do you know, so do I."

This time, a smirk did cross her lips. "North Side," she stated bluntly. "Next to Lincoln Park."

Jack blinked again. She shrugged.

"My handlers may have mentioned something in the brief."

"They told you where I live?"

"Not exactly."

"But you've known all this time."

Her blonde head nodded, throwing him for a loop. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. The federal government was well-known for making less than great decisions. But what did surprise him was that she hadn't sought him out. He hadn't found her lurking outside his home, or running into him at the store, trying to get a moment alone with him.

He couldn't say that he would've been able to do the same, in her position. To her, he was her best shot at getting the government to reassess their circumstances, and the policy to not do anything to correct the timeline. But she had left him alone.

Why?

His gaze wandered as he considered the situation, and saw that they had drawn some attention. Well, not they, exactly.

She had drawn some attention.

A passenger off to the right was casting furtive looks towards Jennifer Blaine, repeatedly looking for some sort of confirmation that the woman was who she appeared to be. Glancing back at his companion, Jack realized that he wasn't the only one who had noticed.

"Someone you know?"

Keeping her eyes trained on her hands, twisting subtly in her lap, Ms. Blaine shook her head. For a moment, Jack considered making a crack at the bizarre situation, but seeing her discomfort stayed his tongue. So instead, he merely glared at the inquisitive passenger until the woman noticed and returned her attention to her book, properly chastised.

"Well," he remarked, his tone forcibly light and nonchalant, "I guess this wasn't the right day to take the subway after all." His companion glanced up at him once more, almost appreciative of the distraction. "I figured since the weather was starting to get bad, taking the train would be safer than driving. Too bad the forecast didn't mention overcrowding with a chance of technical malfunction."

"I could probably fix it," she replied softly.

Jack arched a brow. "Really?"

She nodded. "My Ph.D. was theoretical astrophysics, but my undergrad was a dual degree in physics and electrical engineering. It probably wouldn't be too difficult to figure out."

"Well, in that case," Jack scoffed, "why don't you?"

Her eyes narrowed, until she was pegging him with a sharp, skeptical glare. "Because if I did I would be remanded into federal custody, my fake name would be stripped away, and I'd most likely spend the rest of my unnatural life in the bottom of the deepest pit the government can find."

"What?"

"It'd be a breach of contract. My freedom is contingent upon the condition that I completely divorce myself from everything that defined me as a person in my old life—my real life. That means no Air Force, no astronomy, no physics, no electrical engineering. I'm also prohibited from interacting with Mission Commander Carter's sphere of influence, which essentially precludes any form of academia."

Jack let the full weight of her words sink in. He'd figured there would be restrictions on what she would have access to— the obvious being her friends, and any attempt to make contact with anyone she claimed to know besides them. But hearing all of it from her own lips… it was clear how difficult it was.

Jack knew that, if in her shoes, he would have had some major difficulty.

But even so, her friend's words echoed in his mind, claims that his son, his Charlie, was dead. Shot with his off-duty weapon.

And just like that, his earlier sentiments were renewed. Anything that kept this world safe was necessary. Even if this one woman suffered for it, so be it.

Charlie came first. Always.

"Well it sounds like you must be pretty bored then," he commented drily. "Gives you time to think, if you're into that sort of thing."

His attempt to earn a smile fell flat, when her eyes darkened and her gaze lowered. There was a furrow in her brow he could not quite interpret—he couldn't tell if she was angry, sad, or something else entirely.

"Look, Ms. Blaine—"

"Don't call me that."

Her words were sharp and biting, and quick enough to take Jack by surprise. But he understood, in a way. It wasn't her name, and for him to look so similar to whom she knew in her world… But even so, he couldn't exactly call her Samantha Carter, now could he?

She must have sensed his quandary, because a moment later she was speaking once more. "At least call me Jennifer, or something," she muttered. "Ms. Blaine makes me sound so… old."

It wasn't her first choice of descriptors, he could tell, but he let her have it. He nodded. "All right. Jennifer. Jen. Jenny." He wrinkled his nose. "Jennifer?"

She nodded in acceptance, and he agreed. "Jennifer it is."

"Why even bother?" she asked him bluntly. "You're not going to see me again once this train makes it to the station. Not much point in deciding on a nickname."

Realization hit him like a kick to the stomach. She was right. Why was he trying to get familiar with her? She was either certifiably insane, or she wanted to bring about a world where his son was dead. Either way, she was bad news, and yet… He couldn't help himself. That much had already been determined; the past few minutes had shown that much.

This woman, regardless of who she was or who she wasn't, had a certain magnetism about her, and he hadn't even realized she was pulling him in.

Had Mission Commander Carter been so alluring?

He couldn't help but wonder.

In the end, he hid his sudden apprehension with a shrug. "I was raised polite."

Jennifer Blaine snorted in derision. "Yeah, I bet."

The righteous indignation that bubbled up within him was cut short at the sudden tremor that jostled the train and its occupants, eliciting cries of concern until the lights flickered on and the train began to slide forward. Cheers filled the car, and a disembodied voice informed them that they would be reaching their intended destination within the next half hour.

Jack gave a sigh of relief, then looked to his companion. The warmth he had begun to see in her eyes was gone, leaving behind a cool disinterest. Disappointment filled him for a brief moment before he shook it off.

"Well," he uttered gamely, "that's that."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and a tired hand tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her eyes refused to meet his.

"That's that," she echoed softly.


	2. Chapter 2

They spent the rest of the trip to the platform in silence, and as soon as they docked Jennifer Blaine melted into the crowd without a second look back. Jack had tried to follow her path, instinctively, but lost her in a matter of moments.

And now, almost three months later, he had yet to see her again.

For all he knew, her handlers had caught wind of their meeting, and had relocated her on a matter of principle. But, in spite of himself, he hoped that wasn't the case. In fact, even knowing she was in the same city was driving him nuts.

Almost as a second thought he kept an eye open for her when he was out and about, and every flash of a tall blonde had him searching for a glimpse of a face. It was never her, but it didn't matter.

He kept looking.

It took three months, but on the other side of the city, he finally found her.

He was passing by a coffee shop when a glance inside sent his pulse racing and those same tingles down his spine. But then he saw the man standing squarely in her path, and the curious—even fervent—stares of those around her. The crowd was starting to get riled up, he could tell, by the increased frenzy of the tumultuous conversation and the blatant worry he could see in the furrow of her brow.

In an instant, he realized what was happening—someone had recognized her. And this someone, whoever it was, had confronted her.

Without a second thought he pushed into the crowded café, and the excited fervor of the crowd washed over him. He was surprised to hear the accusations in the air, and to feel the tension in the air reaching mob proportions. But he focused on her voice, which lifted above the rest of the crowd.

"I'm not who you think I am," she was saying, desperation tingeing her voice. "She's dead! I am not Samantha Carter—"

"Jennifer!" Jack's voice cut through the din with a precision that came from years of military service.

Blue eyes found him as he pushed through the last of the throng surrounding her, and he saw relief flood her features. But in an instant it was gone as an overenthusiastic fan—or disgruntled patron—grabbed her wrist.

Before she could even react, Jack broke the hold with a move of his own, causing the man in question to release his grip with a yelp of unexpected pain. Without waiting for anyone to protest his intrusion, Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her flush against his side. She came willingly, and as soon as she was close he began to move them both to the door.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, shielding her with his body. There were some words of protest, but more in response to his indiscriminate shoving than to his stealing away of their impromptu floor show. When they burst through the door a moment later, Jack kept them moving, not slowing until they had reached the shelter of an alley around the corner.

Once they had stopped, Jack instinctively moved to look her over.

"Are you all right?" he asked her brusquely, the Colonel in him sounding off as he would with one of his men. His eyes raked over her form, and though she seemed the slightest bit disheveled, the only indication she'd nearly been overwhelmed was the way her eyes were darting in every direction but his.

His fingers gently inspected her wrist where the man had grabbed her, but so far there wasn't even a bruise. Even so, she had yet to answer him.

"Hey."

His voice was suddenly soft, softer than it'd been in years. It surprised him, but he focused on her instead. When her head dipped to avoid his direct gaze, his fingers reached out to gently tip her chin back up. When he finally looked into her eyes, he was surprised to see they were sparkling with unshed tears.

He saw her struggle to remain under control, to keep the tears at bay, but when her breath hitched, he reacted instinctively, and pulled her into a gentle embrace.

"It's okay," he told her softly. His hand found the back of her neck, and held her closer. For a brief, fleeting moment, her tension fell away and she melted into his touch.

But then, before he could even blink, she was struggling against him, fighting his hold until she had writhed far enough away to slam her hands against his chest, shoving him away with bodily force.

"No!" she shouted. "You're not him!" He reached for her again, but she sidestepped him, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt. "Stop it! You're not him, and I'm not her!"

Her hands swiped angrily at her cheeks, fiercely dashing away the tears that had finally spilled over. She turned with a huff, her gaze darkening. "God, I'm not even me anymore…"

For a long moment, Jack let her have her space. Her head was bowed, her hands planted firmly on her hips as she tried to rein in the emotions that had risen to the surface. It was more than just the café, he realized. It was everything—it was the name, it was the government, the Air Force. It was the timeline.

It was him.

It was who he wasn't.

Suddenly, she cleared her throat and straightened. When she looked at him, her eyes were hard and devoid of any vulnerability. They were cold.

One last brush of her cheeks, clearing away the last traces of her tears, and then she was moving towards him.

"I have to go," she told him brusquely. She tried to push past him, and was none too gentle about it, but his hands caught her by the arms as she passed. Immediately she tensed, but he spoke before she could try to fight him.

"Let me drive you home," he said.

She glared at him, and attempted to wrench her arm from his grasp. "No. Now let go of me—"

"Jennifer!" The name, real or not, got her attention, and she stilled. "Think about it. This side of the city is all about public transportation. If you use the bus or the subway then you run the risk of bumping into the same people who just tried to mob you. You really wanna do that again?"

She hesitated, and that was enough for him.

"Look," he continued gently. "Lemme give you a ride. I'll drop you off, and that'll be it, all right? Even a ride from me has gotta be worth avoiding the stares and the whispers for one afternoon." He looked her in the eye. "Right?"

The fight left her, and she relaxed under his hands. Finally she nodded in acceptance.

"Good," he told her, putting an arm around her once more to guide them both from the alleyway. "Let's go."

As they made their way to where his truck was parked a few blocks over, Jack couldn't help but think it was going to be the most awkward car ride ever.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack was surprised to see that Jennifer Blaine had rated a nice single family home in the suburbs. Then again, the Air Force couldn't really risk some nosy tenement neighbor sticking their nose in their dead astronaut's business, could they? At least here, Jennifer Blaine had the option to be a recluse. Kinda.

But as soon as he stopped thinking about the logistics of the 'burbs versus a posh city apartment, he knew something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it right away, and his passenger didn't seem to notice in the slightest. She levered herself from the truck before he'd even thrown it into park. It was a race for him to beat her to the front door, so dead set was she to be out of his presence.

He didn't care. His arm snaked out and snagged her arm at the edge of the porch, yanking her back against him with a vicious pull. She cried out in surprise and indignation, and he barely managed to pin her other arm before she nailed him with mean-looking right hook.

But a murmur in her ear and a nod of his head directed her attention to the front door—and she froze.

The hatch was open, wide enough to see well into the front hall. And in that front hall he saw broken glass and an overturned table and a scattering of loose paper. The walls weren't painted, but covered in wallpaper that had large sections ripped away and hanging limply towards the floor.

A glance at the blonde next to him told him that she had finally noticed it too. Her eyes took in the damage, and though her features quickly shifted to a carefully schooled expression, he didn't miss the flash of shock that flashed in her eyes. But somehow, he saw understanding as well.

"You expecting a surprise inspection from the feds?" he asked her softly.

It was a long moment before she shook her head.

"It wasn't them," she said dully. Jack eyed her warily, but she didn't even spare him a glance. She stepped towards the door, only to pause a moment later when he gripped her elbow tightly, halting her movement.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" he told her. "You're an Air Force Colonel, so I know you're not thinking about going into this house without it being cleared by the cops first, right?"

Blue eyes rolled at his words. "An Air Force Colonel who doesn't exist anymore," she countered bluntly. She shrugged. "I can handle myself."

"But—"

"It's fine," she brushed him off easily. "There's got to be something…" She moved towards the door, but her eyes caught sight of something on the small wooden table that stood just outside the door. "Here."

She reached out, and gently lifted a slip of paper from the surface. He could see the handwritten scrawl of dark ink across the page, but she read it silently, clearly keeping him in the dark as to what was actually written.

He waited almost patiently for a moment, but the nagging reminder of the open door quickly prompted him to snatch the paper from between her fingers. A glance was all it took to read its contents.

Soon.

As always,

Your Romeo

The words hit Jack like a freight train. He read them twice, then again for good measure before flipped the page over in search of anything that might be lurking on the other side. When he found nothing else, he read the front one last time.

When he glanced at her, and found none of the horror he expected, realization washed over him. His glance shifted into a glare, yielding the slightest hint of contrition from the woman, and he knew his suspicions were true. And that confirmation sent ice shooting through his veins.

"What the hell is 'as always' supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice hard. "Has this guy contacted you before?"

She didn't answer him, but her eyes did.

"Do your handlers know you've earned yourself a stalker?"

"He's not my stalker!" she told him, anger creeping into her tone at the accusation he leveled her way. But then her voice softened again, and her arms folded over her chest defensively. "He's hers."

"Hers?"

"Samantha's. The mission commander's," she clarified. "He'd been following her since before she died. I guess he saw me one day, and believed she had come back from the dead. Or was an angel," she added almost as a second thought. She shook her head. "I'm not really sure. He rambles."

"He rambles?" Jack gaped at her. "Just how many times has this guy left you welcome home presents like this?"

"He's never broken into my house before," she informed him. Her voice was growing increasingly stony, and her eyes were turning a chilly shade of blue. But she kept talking. "At first it was just flowers, or little gifts now and then. After a while, he upgraded to leaving notes."

"And your case officers… they don't mind this little violation of privacy?"

"I don't even know if they've noticed yet."

Jack straightened, sensing they were finally getting to the heart of it. "And you haven't told them."

She took a single step towards him, her shoulders square against the growing confrontation. "No, I haven't. Why would I?"

"Because they can protect you!"

A snort scraped from her throat, jarring his righteous indignation on her behalf. Her features settled into a mask of skepticism, glaring sharply at him.

"Really? Which case officers do you know?" she demanded fiercely. "Because I for one have a couple of foot-out-the-door tools who could barely find their own asses with both hands and a map. They wouldn't know a threat if it bit them in the armpit, and even if I did tell them, what would they do? All they would do is yank me from Chicago and plant me in some other godawful town!"

Silence rang in the wake of her outburst, and it was only then he noticed that she'd gravitated towards him, until she was so close he could feel her chest heaving as she sucked in a breath to steady herself. She finally seemed to notice as well, and she backed up with a heavy step. Her head bowed, breaking the furious glare of eye contact they'd shared.

"So, no," she finished, her voice heavy. "I didn't tell them."

Jack took a deep breath. There was something off about the whole thing—Romeo, the trashed house, her reaction… Something wasn't right.

"Even a new city is better than being on the wrong end of an obsession," he told her as calmly as he could possibly manage. It was a good effort, he decided, considering how badly he wanted to throttle some sense into her.

"Oh, well, now that you've opened my eyes to the horrors of having a crazed stalker on my six, of course…"

She was mocking him. The rolling eyes, the drawling voice… She was throwing his concern back in his face.

It stung, but he said nothing, reminding himself that this woman had been alone for a long time. And he wasn't the one who should be having this conversation with her. This was a job for her handlers, if they'd actually been doing their jobs right. But they hadn't, and he was, and so he swallowed his pride even as she continued.

"Oh, but wait—" Her fingers snapped as though a light bulb had gone off. "Except that he first found me in Baltimore. And then in Miami, and now in Chicago." She rolled her eyes theatrically. "The guy's like a bad penny…"

"Are you even listening to yourself?"

His voice was level, but weighty. His intent was serious, and she seemed to pick up on it instantaneously, for she sobered from her sarcasm in a heartbeat. Jack could stomach her rejecting his concern, but he would not let her be stupid.

"This guy is stalking you—you said it yourself," he added when her mouth opened to protest. "And in case you didn't know, such activities are against the law. For good reason." She glared at him, and he met it head on with a hard stare of his own. "And by the way, the sarcasm doesn't become you."

"I learned from the best," she fired back, a smirk curling her lips. "And this guy hasn't done a single thing to threaten me. In fact, this Romeo has treated me better than anyone else on this planet has."

She sobered the moment the words slipped her lips, and he knew instinctively that she had not meant to reveal that particular sentiment. Her gaze dropped, then darted to his guiltily, as though hoping he would change the subject.

He didn't. He remained silent, staring at her until she sighed, her features solemn.

"I don't have to pretend," she admitted finally. "I don't have to fake it, I don't have to lie—hell, I don't have to do a goddamn thing."

"Hello—look at your house!" He gestured towards the damage visible even from the porch. "Does that not translate into 'threatening' in your world?"

"Look around," came the swift rebuttal. She gestured to the mess lurking inside the door. "This isn't some enraged destructive spree. It's methodical. He was looking for something."

Jack glanced at the shattered glass and sheared wallpaper hanging limply from the walls. Whatever she saw, he didn't. It was pure chaos, plain and simple. There wasn't any discernable method to the damage Romeo had done, but then again, she might still know something that he didn't. Heck, he'd put money on it.

"And so what if he did some damage?" She shrugged. "I don't care."

"You don't—You don't care?" he sputtered. "Oh, fer cryin' out loud! You're certifiable, lady—"

"Certifiable?" she parroted back at him. "You think I should care about an empty house that has no pictures, no books, no personal effects of any kind? Because just in case you forgot—I'm not allowed to have personal touches. Because I'm not allowed to be a person anymore. I'm just a name, a cover identity."

Jack stood rooted at the sudden ferocity in her voice. Just like that, she was no longer simply angry, or defensive. She was hostile. It surprised him, how unnerved it made him.

"Jennifer Blaine exists only on paper," she continued. "She doesn't have interests. She doesn't even have a job, because she can't ever have a routine in case someone sees her often enough to realize she's the spitting image of a goddamned dead astronaut."

Romeo's note was snatched from his hand, and he was still so dumbstruck he didn't even have the sense to try and hold on to it. Her eyes glittered with something half anger, half anguish as she met his gaze squarely, even as her features calmed into a stone mask.

"Thanks for the ride," she delivered finally. "You can go now."

And with that, she stalked towards the busted door of her home, as calmly as though the lock hadn't been destroyed and the insides didn't look as if a tornado had ripped through it.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he huffed, pulling her back by the arm. "You might not be bothered by the state of your home, but I am. At least let me clear it and make sure this guy really isn't there anymore before you go barging in." Blue eyes met his in a stubborn glare. "Just humor me, okay?"

Her chest lifted with a deep, bracing breath, but instead of fighting him, she just rolled her eyes. "If I do, will you go away?"

He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he didn't quite feel. "Maybe," he returned impishly, letting his usual immaturity make itself known.

It didn't escape his notice that the break in decorum did not put her at ease as he'd hoped it would—as it did so many others. He tried not to notice the disappointment that dropped in his gut at the subtle way she brushed him off, like she'd been humoring him for years and simply no longer had the effort to do so any longer.

Jack led the way the way into the house, pulling out his weapon as he did so. He'd heard her intake of breath when he first revealed the handgun, and deduced that the Jack O'Neill she knew might not have been so vigilant.

To that realization, he merely shrugged—there were some things he just couldn't shake, after being black ops for so long. The need to be armed was one of them.

He cleared the house with practiced efficiency, but Romeo wasn't there. His reluctant charge followed behind him, and took in the extensive damage with a cool eye. Every so often she would pick up a vase or inspect a lamp shade, as if looking for something.

She didn't say a word, but Jack could swear she seemed almost pleased by the hell that had been wrought on the place.

Once the house had been declared safe, Jack still didn't leave. Part of him wanted to, reluctant to have any part in this twisted, messed up game she was playing with Romeo. But another, more vocal part of himself reminded him that the whole thing was partly his fault.

No, he hadn't changed the timeline, and no, he hadn't created the rules that isolated her from everyone and everything. But when the Air Force had asked for his opinion, he'd given it. He had been explicit in his concern that each and every one of the people he'd pulled off the ice was a threat, and should be treated as such.

He hadn't been the one to suggest keeping them apart and without contact, but he'd approved the option when it had been put on the table. He'd played his part in putting this woman in a position where she could be so easily targeted.

He was as much to blame as her case officers were.

Together they gravitated towards her kitchen. She largely ignored his presence as she want about prepping a pot of coffee, her movements as casual as if there wasn't the crunch of broken glass underfoot and that she didn't have to go searching for an unbroken mug.

He watched her silently for a moment, but his curiosity eventually got the better of him.

"You know what he was looking for, don't you?" he asked carefully.

She didn't look at him, but after a pause she did answer. "Yes."

Jack rolled his eyes. There were some times he really hated the military's habit of churning out officers so well trained in giving monosyllabic answers. "Will you tell me what it was?"

There was another pause, but one significantly more brief than the last one. "Bugs."

He blinked. "Bugs?"

"You didn't think I'd be allowed to live here unmonitored, did you?"

Huh. He hadn't even thought about that. "Oh, uh, well… no, I guess not." He hesitated. "You knew where they were," he stated. "That's how you knew he'd been methodical. You saw that he'd targeted the places where you knew the bugs were."

"Yup."

"And he found them all, didn't he?"

She smiled then, and she finally met his gaze. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Every single one. Whoever he is, he's good."

"Well, you don't have to sound like such a fan…"

This earned him a shrug. "I've learned that the best policy is to give credit where it's due. And whether you want to admit it or not, he did us both a favor."

"Oh, really?" His brow arched expectantly.

"Yeah. For the first time since coming through the Stargate, I've got some privacy. It probably won't last long, but it's something." Her eyes met his over the rim of her coffee mug. "And now they won't even know you've been here. The Air Force won't know, and your wife won't know. That's a whole lot of complication that just got avoided."

Jack absorbed that for a moment—he hadn't even considered the repercussions his presence might have for either of them. No doubt she'd been warned away from him, and here he was, looking for reasons to stay.

"I'm not married," he said finally. Blue eyes looked surprised. "Not anymore."

"So you and Sara didn't work out, huh?"

He didn't bother wondering how she'd known his ex-wife's name. "Nah," he answered. "I was a lousy husband anyway. She got remarried a few years back. Now living happily ever after with a buddy of mine."

"Really?" He wasn't sure what he found more surprising—her sudden, but decidedly honest interest, or the fact that he found it incredibly sexy.

It sparked a gleam in her eyes that transformed her features, from harsh, tired lines to a subtle softness. It seemed… real. Tangible. Like this comfortable curiosity was her natural state of grace.

"Yeah… Do you know any of my buddies? In your, uh… your world?" He didn't know why he was playing along with her. At least, he pretended not to know. It was easier for both of them if he didn't.

"I've met a few over the years." There was a devilish glint in her eye, and against his better judgment, he found himself suddenly curious at just how much she might actually know.

"All right, Miss Smarty-pants. Why don't you guess, if you think you know so much?"

She tilted her head at him, weighing the option. "Fine," she accepted smugly.

Her eyes raked over him, and Jack took the opportunity to meet her gaze unashamedly. For the first time, he could see beyond their color, and into the mind beneath. He could almost see the wheels working, and her eyes sharpened with intense focus.

He wondered if the Mission Commander had been as fetching while solving a problem.

Finally, she smiled. "I know who it is."

"That's it? No twenty questions?"

"Don't need it," came the smug response. When he stared at her expectantly, she continued. "You're not torn up about it, which tells me you value your friendship with your buddy more than you resent your divorce. And those friends are few and far between, so…"

"So…" he mimicked, egging her on.

She smirked at him. "Kawalsky."

Jack's eyebrows shot sky-high. There was no way she could have guessed so easily. "Kawalsky! How in the hell—" He sighed, then shook his head. "Never mind, don't answer that."

She grinned at his bluster, and her own triumph. "Yup… Kawalsky. How's he doing these days?"

"Ah, you know. He got smart, got married, and got out of the game. Got a plumbing business a few boroughs from my place here in the city. Sara wanted to stay here for Charlie, and Kawalsky was game, so he moved here once his contract was up."

"That's good." Her words were blunt, but her voice was suddenly tender, nostalgic. Her eyes had softened, unfocused as she got lost in her memories. But then she blinked, and her focus returned. "But, wow—a plumber, huh? I wouldn't have guessed that one."

"Yeah," he concurred, "me neither." He looked up at her as she stood to pour the now-ready coffee into her hard-won mug. "So, how do you know him?"

She hesitated, obviously debating how much to tell him. In the end, she shrugged away her concern.

"He was on the original mission to Abydos," she revealed. "Your second-in-command. But I didn't meet him until the second trip almost a year later." She chuckled. "He knocked me out that first week. Gave me one hell of a concussion."

"You telling me no one warned you about accepting his offers to spar? I swear, that man gets an unhealthy satisfaction outta psyching us out in the ring."

A graceful brow arched in his direction. "Spar? Not really… unless you count getting taken hostage in an elevator as 'sparring'. Personally, I don't."

"Whoa, hostage?" He shook his head at the thought. "No, we must not be talking about the same Kawalsky."

"We aren't," she answered succinctly. "The Kawalsky that threw me around like a rag doll wasn't the same Kawalsky that went through the gate with us to Abydos."

A poignant silence sounded through the kitchen. Jack looked at his host, and blinked. "I don't get it."

And just like that, the warmth in her eyes flickered out, and her gaze hardened. "No. You don't." She glared at her coffee. "None of you do."

Jack sighed, recognizing the sudden downturn in the conversation. "And here we were having such a nice talk."

Her eyes narrowed at him. Her mug slammed heavily onto the marble countertop, and the brown liquid sloshed over the sides of the ceramic cup. "Oh yeah, that's right. Don't bother listening to me, I'm just the delusional threat to global security that the Air Force can't ever let out of their sight. Whatever I say is inconsequential."

"Again with the sarcasm—"

"But you know what? Of all people, I thought you would at least listen. Believe me, even."

"Oh really? Why's that?"

"Because you're a military man, plain and simple. And what I'm talking about is the biggest threat to mankind this planet has ever seen!"

"That's not melodramatic at all—"

"Dammit, Jack, they killed Kawalsky!"

Jack froze. But as soon as her temper had emerged, it disappeared, as did the familiarity that had grown in her eyes.

"Never mind," she murmured, looking down at her coffee. "You don't wanna hear it." She turned to pour the coffee into the sink behind her. She didn't turn back around. "The house is clear," she said. "You can leave now."

He had half a mind to do so. "There's a lot of damage here," he told her brusquely. "I'll call your case officers, and they can—"

"Don't." Her voice was hard and deliberate. "Don't call them."

"They need to know what's been going on here," he said. "You're not safe here—"

"I won't be any safer anywhere else."

"Why do you wanna stay here so bad?"

She didn't answer right away. He waited though, with more patience than he usually had. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and subdued.

"This is my fifth city in four months," she admitted softly. "They tell me to keep a low profile, and I swear to God I do, but—it's only a matter of time before people start asking questions. And once that happens, and my handlers catch wind of it, they ship me off to some other part of the country."

Jack took a step towards her. "I get that it's hard," he said. "But you said it yourself, you're an Air Force Colonel. You must be used to moving around all the time."

"Stop," she interrupted. "Just stop. You don't understand, and I don't expect you to. But in this instance, it is my call whether to let my case officers know, and I am asking you—don't tell them. Please."

Jack glared at her. "You know, you keep saying that I don't get it, that I don't understand. Did it ever occur to you that I might if you just try me?"

For a long moment, she didn't even look at him. She remained resolute and silent, and he knew chances were he'd get nothing from her. But to his surprise, her voice drifted to where he sat at the table, soft and tentative.

"It reminds me of home." Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee mug, her eyes glued to the tense movements. "It's not the Springs, or the mountain, but it's probably as close as I'll ever get."

"Is it really worth risking your life over?"

Finally, her eyes lifted to meet his. "Yes. It is."

She didn't offer anything else in way of explanation, her eyes hard and unyielding. Jack knew he wouldn't get more. But looking at her, he wondered if he really needed more. He was slowly realizing that this woman, foreign and unbelievable as she was, was not so different from him.

She was a soldier, a pilot even. She was used to being at the beck and call of the government, but there had to be rhyme and reason to it. In the military, servicemen and women relied on their work to keep their minds off their families, the friends they had left behind. They relied on their work, and their comrades.

The work kept them distracted, and the camaraderie kept them sane.

Colonel Samantha Carter had none of that. She was alone. And he didn't know how to help her in a way that would keep his son alive and breathing.

In the end, he did the only thing he could.

He let it go.

His gaze drifted across the mess the kitchen was in, and settled on a somewhat battered cereal box. He grinned in recognition.

"So you're a Frootees junkie too, huh?" he said lightly.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise at the change in conversation. But then she let loose with a small, wry smile of her own. "Can't stand them, actually."

Jack blinked. "Huh? Then why on Earth—?"

"He does," she clarified. Her gaze remained guiltily on the countertop.

"You buy cereal for Romeo? Really?"

"What? No." Her nose wrinkled at the thought. "Of course not." Her jaw clenched tightly. "Not him. You." She sighed, her expression suddenly tired. "You like Frootees. Well—technically you like Fruit Loops. It's Fruit Loops where I come from."

"Fruit Loops." Reiteration seemed the only viable option at that point. Jack was lost, and he wasn't all that sure he wanted to delve any deeper than he already had. But the sadness in her eyes called to him, and he couldn't help but bite the bullet.

"Tell me about him."

Blue eyes shot up to his, startled. "What?"

Jack swallowed nervously. "This… other me that you're attached to. You miss him."

She hesitated, for a moment that stretched on forever.

"Yeah. I do."

The whispered confession was like a knife to his heart. He saw the tears spring to her eyes before she ducked her head to hide them, and her fingers tightened around the handle of her mug almost imperceptibly. He couldn't pretend to be oblivious to the instant heartache that settled over her like a dark cloud, and when he forced himself to press harder, his voice was tender.

"So tell me. What was he like?"

A small, sad smile curled her lips, but her eyes met his nonetheless, and in them he saw a vulnerability he'd never seen before. "You sure you want to know? You may not—"

"Hey, I don't have to like the guy," he told her. "But I think everybody on the planet wonders who they could have been if things were different. I admit to having a few moments of weakness myself." He grinned when he saw a spark of mirth in her eyes. He leaned forward against the counter, with all the avid interest of a ten-year-old. "So tell me—was I ever a cowboy?"

"Hah," she scoffed, a smile pulling at her lips even through the tears gathered at her lashes. "No. Not exactly." Her lips twisted in a smirk. "But you could have fooled us a time or two."

"Oh, really?"

"Mhmm," she affirmed. "But somehow things always turned out all right in the end, for all the craziness that seemed to follow you."

Jack's grin broadened. "Story of my life. Guess not much is different after all."

And just like that the switch was flipped. Her eyes narrowed, the smile disappeared, and Jack swore he could feel the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.

"I'd say something is different, considering that when we tried to explain our presence on the ice you called us freaks."

Jack almost winced. He'd forgotten he'd left the hatch open when he'd relayed orders to the sailor guarding them on the submarine. But he brushed it off; that Daniel guy had gone after his son. Freaks was the least of what he'd wanted to call them at the time. "And I wouldn't have in your reality?"

"No!" The fire had returned, in her eyes and her voice both. Even as Jack's own hackles rose, he couldn't ignore the way her eyes glinted at him in the gloom of the shadowy kitchen. "No, he wouldn't have! He might not have believed us, but he wouldn't have been so fucking condescending! He—"

Her voice caught in her throat, and her glare stuttered. The tears sprang back to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. When she spoke, her tone was softer, almost reverent.

"He would've just stared at us, reading us... and then he would have shrugged his shoulders like it wasn't the craziest thing in the world to hear." She shook her head. "He wouldn't have done what you did."

"Really?" Jack countered. "Even if you'd brought up Charlie?"

Silence answered him, and he studied her expression carefully. He was right, he knew he was.

"I find it really hard to believe your Jack would have taken your story easily, in my shoes."

Again, she didn't respond. But he let it go, knowing he'd made his point. He changed the subject in a blatant bid to ease the tension that threatened to suffocate them both. "So… Frootees, huh?"

To his relief, she took the opening, nodding carefully. "Yeah. He loved them." She cleared the rasp from her throat with a sniff, bringing her emotions back under rein. "Sometimes he'd have it every morning for a week straight, until someone managed to convince him to eat something healthier."

"Bet that didn't happen often. Health food is overrated."

Her head tilted back as she let loose a laugh. "All he needed was the right persuasion..."

He tried not to notice how the sun played against her hair, or the way his stomach flip flopped when her sparkling eyes met his as her laugh dwindled to a chuckle. And he sure as hell tried not to think about what exactly the right persuasion entailed.

But even so, she must have sensed his discomfort, because a moment later her expression darkened, and her gaze lowered with awkward conscientiousness. Her lips pressed into a thin line, further conveying her similar discomfort.

In the end, he was the one who broke the silence by clearing his throat.

"Right," he grunted gruffly. "Well, I, uh… You want help cleaning up?"

She shook her head no, not meeting his gaze. "No," she echoed dully. "It's fine. Thanks for the ride."

Jack hesitated for a long moment, wanting to stay but knowing they both would only grow more uncomfortable the more he lingered. Eventually he turned and took a few steps towards the front door, only to turn back at the last moment.

"Look, ah... You got a cell phone?"

Blue eyes darted to his in surprise at the rushed query. She froze for only a second before nodding. She slipped it out of her pocket, and he gently took it from her hand without a word. He quickly punched a number in, saved it, and then handed it back to her.

"That's my personal cell. If anything happens—if Romeo makes any further contact with you, or threatens you, I want you to call me. I'll always answer…day or night."

She stared at him for a long moment, then finally nodded in acquiescence. The simple agreement lifted the heavy weight from his chest the moment it was made, and Jack finally felt like he could breathe again—which was strange, considering he hadn't even realized he'd been slowly suffocating until that moment.

"Be careful, Ms. Blaine," he told her softly. She nodded mutely, and he turned to leave.

This time, he was almost out of earshot by the time he heard her murmur "Bye, Jack," to his departing back.

It took all of his strength to keep walking, and not turn back at the dark, dismal farewell she offered.


	4. Chapter 4

It was amazing really, how exhausted she could get while doing nothing at all.

Normally, shopping was her downtime. At least it used to be, in her world. It was the time she could just get lost in the hordes of civilians, where no one knew her as Samantha "Blew-Up-A-Sun" Carter, and she didn't have to be alone in an empty house.

But now, her empty house was the only place where she _could_ be Samantha Carter. The moment she stepped out the front door she was Jennifer Blaine, and it was her responsibility to ensure that Mission Commander Carter stayed dead. The close quarters of the supermarket were no different from the café or the train.

Now, even a simple shopping trip was as nerve-wracking as a jaunt through a Goa'uld-infested planet. She spent the entire trip either looking over her shoulder, or staring at her cart in a futile attempt to avoid the stares sent her way. In the end, she'd moved as quickly as possible, in a tense parody of her leisurely preference.

But even then, she'd been unable to avoid the awkward looks in the aisles, and had then gotten stuck in the checkout line behind an old woman who had quite a few more than the fifteen items the lane was designated for. It was while waiting in that god-forsaken line that she'd seen the tabloids of the week.

And, of course, the first rag her eyes rested on featured a front page photograph of her in the coffee shop from two weeks ago. It must have been taken just moments before O'Neill had shown up, because the man who'd accosted her had a grip on her wrist, and though her hair was thankfully covering half her face and thus obscuring her features, her distress seemed blatantly obvious.

Small wonder O'Neill had come to her rescue. Sam doubted very much that any Jack O'Neill in any reality in any timeline would be cold-hearted enough to ignore a damsel-in-distress. And as much as she'd resented the need for said rescue, she was grateful for it. Even the picture unnerved her, sparking uncomfortable memories that only reminded how alone she was. She'd gotten lucky in the café—she couldn't count on a similar rescue every time she went out and about.

Sam tried to shake off the tension as she unpacked the groceries. But try as she might, the tickling sensation of someone watching her remained. As a precaution, she made the rounds as soon as she'd put away the last of the groceries, checking the windows, pulling the blinds, and making sure the locks on the doors were secured.

But it wasn't until a shadow from behind barreled into her that she realized she'd had her priorities wrong. As a sharp pain lanced through her skull and her vision went dark, her last thought was that the groceries should have been the least of her worries.

She should've checked the house first.

* * *

When Sam's eyes opened, the first thing she registered was the pounding throb of pain lancing through her skull. Her second thought was to wonder which truck had plowed her over.

But then she remembered it hadn't been a truck. It had been something—someone— in her house.

And it was only then that she realized that cold steel encircled her wrists, where they lay limp and heavy in her lap. She was seated upright, and though she wasn't moving herself, she could feel the faint vibrations of something moving around her. A sharp honk of a car horn in her periphery told her she was in a vehicle, one moving at a fair pace.

Ever so carefully, she pried her eyelids apart. It was dark, full night—it had been evening when she had gotten home from the store. She wondered briefly how long she had been unconscious, but the curiosity was overwhelmed an instant later when she noticed the shadowed figure sitting behind the wheel.

It took a moment, but she finally realized that part of the buzzing in her ears was the low, continuous murmurings of the driver. Her captor.

The voice was familiar, somehow, and her muddled brains struggled to link the sound to memory. It was like wading through a sea of cotton, and not for the first time she wondered what he'd hit her with. She was willing to go with sledgehammer or lead pipe, with a Louisville Slugger a close runner-up.

But somehow, amid the befuddled musings, it finally clicked.

" _Pete?_ "

The name passed her lips before she even realized she could still speak. And the minute she said it, she knew it was the absolute wrong admission to make. The familiar face whipped around to look at her in surprise, pure delight bright on his features.

"You recognize me. I _knew_ you did, I knew it! Last time you said you didn't, but I knew you really did."

There was only the faintest twinge of hysteria in his tone, but it was enough. He was almost frantically excited, a subtle but acute distinction from the man she'd nearly married. Sam let her pounding head rest against the back of the seat, as discovery set in, and everything clicked into place.

"You're Romeo," she stated bluntly, emotionlessly. Not a question—fact.

If her reaction was lackluster, he didn't seem to notice. "Of course I am! I told you before, Sammie, you're my Juliet. You always have been."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"NO!" His shout filled the car with explosive force, sending waves of pain through Sam's skull. "Don't lie to me! Everyone else lied to me. Don't you lie to me too, Sammie."

Sam paused for a long moment, letting the pounding in her head subside. Finally, she dared a question, careful to keep her voice gentle and unassuming.

"Who lied to you, Pete?" No suspicion. Not yet.

"Everyone! The papers, the news shows, NASA, the government— They all lied to me! They kept saying you were dead, that you died in the shuttle explosion. But I knew—I _knew_ you were still out there, Sam. Everyone else made it off the shuttle, so I knew you could have too. They all wrote you off as dead, but I— _I_ knew! I tried to tell them to keep looking, but they refused. They wrote you off as dead, but I never gave up hope, Sammie. I always knew you'd come back to me."

If her head wasn't hurting so much, and the keen reminder of the cuffs tight around her wrists wasn't so unsettling, Sam would have laughed. It was almost comical—the man she'd been set to marry once upon a time had just kidnapped her, and seemed absolutely intent on finally getting that cozy life he had always wanted.

Only this time, he'd gone completely off the reservation.

But then again, it wasn't the first time a fiancé had gone nuts was it? The lunatic fringe, she'd called it once. And of course, she now had to wonder—had Mission Commander Carter had her same problem in this timeline? Had every man the astronaut had gotten involved with wound up dead or heartbroken?

Well, _this_ Pete certainly seemed to fill the broken-hearted quota for this reality as well. Unfortunately, her own arrival in this timeline had allowed the hurt to heal. Or for the hurt to simply not exist. Because to him, Samantha Carter still lived in her.

The whole thing made her head pound, and eventually she simply pushed it from her mind. It was too much to process. For crying out—

Sam froze, even as the familiar phrase flitted across her consciousness.

Jack. _O'Neill_. She had his number. She'd never gotten rid of it.

It was still on her speed-dial—and it was in that moment she felt the uncomfortable press of a bulky cell-phone digging into her hip. Pete had apparently forgotten to relieve her of her cell. Her Pete would never have forgotten something so obvious, not with his police training.

Well, if insanity equaled stupidity in this timeline, she wasn't about to complain.

"How did you know the reports were wrong?" she asked smoothly.

She remained alert, but only partly listened to him. As he launched into an answer, Sam carefully snaked a finger into her pocket, and ever so slowly began to work it from the fabric without him noticing. She was banking on the fact that _her_ Pete had always been prone to getting absorbed by his storytelling, so much so that her efforts to get her phone out would have gone unnoticed.

To her luck, the similarity seemed to hold true.

With painstaking care, the phone slid from her pocket, and she tucked the speaker inconspicuously under her hand. The microphone remained unhindered, and she hoped it would be sensitive enough to convey Pete's voice to O'Neill's phone.

Glancing at Pete to make sure his attention was preoccupied with both his tale and the road, she blindly felt for the keys that would dial O'Neill's number. She hit the green 'call' button, and held her breath. She could only hope O'Neill would make good on his promise to always answer.

But in order for the phone call, even if it connected, to be of any good she had to give O'Neill something to work with.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few moments. The silence had finally settled over them, though Pete hadn't seemed to notice. Reading his body language, Sam was disconcerted. There was no tension in his frame, no hunching of his shoulders to denote his own guilt. He seemed almost… giddy. He was excited.

"Somewhere safe," Pete responded easily, his tone conciliatory. "Somewhere we can be together. We'll be safe. Alone."

"Safe from what?"

This time, Pete's shoulders did stiffen, and Sam realized that if she wasn't careful, she could set Pete off. He'd blitzed her in her own home, and obviously had no qualms about inflicting physical harm if he deemed it necessary—or if he snapped completely.

"You know what from… from the government! From the people who keep trying to hide you from me!" He paused, his fingers worrying the steering wheel, twisting and squeezing so hard that the plastic creaked under his grip.

"I thought you'd be glad, Samantha," he continued, his tone forcibly calm. "I can keep you safe, and I can make you happy. Haven't I made you happy?"

Sam remained silent. What was she supposed to say to that? She'd never seen this Pete before, and the way he'd talked earlier, Mission Commander Carter hadn't had much contact with him either. Whatever 'relationship' he thought was between them was either imagined or grossly exaggerated.

"HAVEN'T I MADE YOU HAPPY?"

The sudden bellow startled Sam so badly she jumped, nearly losing her purchase on the hidden cell phone.

It connected audibly with the console that was situated between the two front seats, and for a moment, she was sure Pete had heard the smack of plastic on plastic. But a moment later, she breathed a silent sigh of relief as he continued on, reining himself in.

"I'm sorry," he told her, his voice holding some modicum of chagrin. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just want you to be happy. I promise, things will be all right now."

His features creased into an honest smile, and for a moment, in the shadows, he looked like _her_ Pete.

"You'll love the place I have picked out. It's got lots of space, and we can even get some chickens and horses once we get settled. Doesn't that sound great?"

Sam froze. Her breath caught in her chest, and she closed her eyes against the phantom images of an Australian Shepard, a barnyard, and the smell of hay and horses—images that had never truly left her, not even now, so long after Fifth's demise.

Her eyes opened, and she stared at the dark road in front of them with a heavy heart. She wouldn't go down this road again. She'd refused to play along then, and she wouldn't play along now.

No matter the cost.

"No, it doesn't."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete's head whip towards her in shocked surprise. "What?"

His tone sounded so genuinely confused, it was almost pitiful, but Sam was beyond caring. She was tired, in pain, and not in the mood for games. She turned to him with nothing but contempt in her heart.

"It doesn't sound _great_ ," she snarled. "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

Pete hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. "I know you're angry, especially the way I treated you this evening. But I had to do it, don't you see? Now we can be together… forever."

Sam almost laughed. Instead, she twisted her wrists against the cuffs, biting her tongue against what she truly thought about _forever_.

"Look," he continued, "I know this is sudden. I wanted to tell you what I had planned, but they were getting ready to move you again, and if they got to you before I did, they would've taken you away from me, for good. I had to protect you."

Sam gave a snort of disgust. "You're insane."

He turned one eye on her, as if trying to determine if she meant it as a joke or not. She stubbornly refused to give him anything to work with, and a moment later he reached into his pocket. When his hand reemerged, his fingers were wrapped around a syringe.

Sam felt her body stiffen in reflex. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and the air turned to syrup in her lungs. Panic hit first, then the questions—did he have enough to completely knock her out? He wasn't a doctor, he might've just guesstimated the amount he would need. But did she really want to take that chance?

His gaze darted between her and the road, even as he slid the cap off the needle. Her mind emptied of all thoughts but one—escape.

"I have something here," he said carefully. "It'll help you sleep. We'll be there by the time you wake up—"

She was moving away from him before he could even begin to reach towards her. She pressed herself against the door when it didn't immediately yield to her yank on the handle—it was child-locked. But it wasn't enough. He continued to reach for her, drugs ready to go.

"Don't touch me," she snarled. She needed to get out of the car. O'Neill wouldn't get to her in time, she knew that now. She was on her own, locked in a cab with a psychopath. Her mind raced through options, even as she tried to buy herself some space from the encroaching syringe.

"Just relax. I promise, everything will be better…"

Suddenly, he lunged at her, and Sam let her instincts take over.

She blocked his frantic stab with a yell, startling him enough to give her a moment's edge as she shoved his hand off to the side with her bound hands. Without thinking of the consequences, she instinctively dove for the wheel, tearing it from his hands in a wild bid for control.

Her surprise nearly rivaled his when she succeeded, and the car swerved across the road.

Pete slammed on the brakes, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the wheel, sending them into a tailspin. The truck skidded across the road, and for a single moment, Sam's vision narrowed. In flashes, she saw the blur of their own headlights streaking across the deserted road, and then the single frame of the metal guardrail as they spun towards it.

And then they were weightless, her senses jarred by the collision with the metal barrier and then one, two, three bone-crunching jerks as the truck tumbled ass over wheels down the incline, before Sam's world snapped into nothingness.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack O'Neill was shocked to see the tabloid headlines staring back at him from the counter at the gas station.

DEAD ASTRONAUT DISCOVERED IN COFFEE SHOP.

Granted, not the most original, but the picture accompanying it bothered him more. The image of the tall blonde made that now familiar gut-twist rear its ugly head once more, and in an instant he was thrown back to that day. He remembered he'd been surprised at her passion, and also by her guardedness.

The blatant need for understanding he'd seen on the submarine had disappeared without a trace, only to be replaced by an almost antagonistic attitude she wore like cloak. And strangely enough, it only made him want to know more, and the more she threw up her walls, the more he wanted to dig deeper. Thinking back, he couldn't believe he'd even been curious about a world in which Charlie was no longer with him.

And just like that, the gut-twist turned into a sickening churn. Guilt, disgust, and anger burned in his chest, and with a shake of his head he dismissed the tabloid and left the gas station behind. He climbed into his truck, and threw it into drive with a violent flick of his wrist.

But even as he pulled out into traffic, he wondered if it was possible for that other Jack O'Neill, the Jack O'Neill that Colonel Carter missed so much, could be both the most miserable man in the universe while simultaneously being the luckiest man alive.

Because as much of a paradox as it sounded, it had to be true. Any guy who had a woman like Air Force Colonel Samantha Carter missing him had to be one lucky sonuvagun. And just for a moment, a split second before his better sense kicked in, he wondered what it would be like to be that man. The idea held more appeal than it should have.

Suddenly, his thoughts were broken by the unexpected ringing of his cell phone. Blinking away his traitorous turn of thought, he glanced at the screen; not a number he recognized. Half expecting it to be a wrong number—he swore it the same person every time—his answer was gruff.

"O'Neill."

For a long moment, there was no answer. He glanced at the screen once more to ensure the call was still connected, and then repeated himself. It was then that he heard a muffled sound from the other end. He couldn't quite make out the words, but the voice was unmistakable.

It was Jennifer. Samantha. Whatever.

But more importantly, she wasn't alone. A fainter, deeper voice traveled across the line—it was a man.

Confusion hit him then, tinged with a heavy dose of dread. Why would she be calling him while she was on date? And why would she be on a date in the first place? She said she was trying to lay low, and getting cozy with someone was not exactly conducive to hiding your identity.

And then a new possibility presented itself like a kick to the gut.

Romeo.

Dread settled over him, sending icy tendrils of fear down his spine. But then Samantha's voice rang clearly over the line, loud and strong.

"Where are we going?" She was talking to him, Jack knew, trying to get him some information he could use to help her. He could tell from the background noise that they were most likely in a car—if he knew anything about her, chances were she'd been incapacitated at some point. No way would she let some whacko get her in a car without a fight.

"Somewhere safe," the man's voice answered. "Somewhere we can be together. We'll be safe. Alone."

"Safe from what?"

"You know what from! From the government! From the people who keep trying to hide you from me!"

Even through the phone, Jack could hear the dangerous edge in the man's voice. The guy was unstable, and he had Jennifer trapped in a car with him. Not good. Not good, not good, not good…

But he kept listening, as the Colonel continued to prompt a conversation from Romeo. He could tell her trying to keep herself calm, playing along with the man's delusions as far as she dared. But the bellow that came out of nowhere physically jarred him, and he almost missed the strained apology that followed.

Romeo was losing it. Jack had to help her before the connection was lost, or Romeo got violent. But he couldn't. He was stuck. He couldn't call for help while staying on the line, and he sure as hell couldn't hang up on her until he got a location at the very least. She was trying to draw information from him but Romeo wasn't obliging.

"No, it doesn't."

Oh, god. Jack's gut sank at the tone of the growled reply. It was a 180 degree turn around from her earlier conciliatory efforts falling away in a heartbeat. It was deliberately combative, with an edge that was hard and emotionless.

No, no, no. She had to keep playing along. Playing along meant staying alive long enough for him to get to her.

He tuned back in just in time to hear Romeo speak up again. "Now we can be together… forever."

Jack cringed, panic lapping at the edges of his awareness. He had to trace the call, but he couldn't let the call drop. If it did, he might not ever find her again.

"Look," Romeo continued, "I know this is sudden. I wanted to tell you what I had planned, but they were getting ready to move you again, and if they got to you before I did, they would've taken you away from me, for good. I had to protect you."

"You're insane."

"I have something here, it'll make you sleep—"

"Don't touch me—" The sudden panic in her voice made Jack's gut twist in fear.

"Just relax. I promise, when you wake up, everything will be better…"

"I said NO!"

Her shout was nearly lost in a sudden bout of static, and then a moment later all hell broke loose.

Romeo gave a sharp yell, followed by the squeal of tires, and then the horrendous cacophony of tearing metal and crunching glass. A series of three sickening thumps sounded over the line, and then—nothing.

The line went dead, and Jack was left staring at a silent cell phone.

Panic gripped him for one agonizing instant, before his training kicked in and he shifted into high gear. In moments, he was dialing another number. The phone rang twice, and then he heard the voice he was waiting for.

"Detective Makepeace," came the bright greeting.

"Rob, I need you to help me out and I need you to do it now and ask questions later."

There was only a moment of hesitation as Makepeace registered the words and who was speaking them. Finally, he responded. "Sure thing, Jack. What d'you need?"

"I need you to find a location on a cell. Here's the number..."

There was a series of taps, and a moment later Makepeace's voice returned. "Alright, the program's running. You have thirty seconds to give me an idea of what I'm dealing with."

"I think the owner of the phone is in trouble. I don't know where she is, but I gotta get to her."

"Her, huh?" Makepeace remarked. A computer beeped in the background. "All right, the phone's location is about thirty miles from the Wisconsin border. Mile marker 110 on the interstate. I'm also dispatching a bus and a couple squad cars. They should be there in thirty minutes."

Jack quickly estimated the distance in his head. "I'm closer. Tell them we're dealing with an unknown male suspect who may or may not be armed. I'm pretty sure he's been stalking her—he might've hurt her."

"I'll tell them. Let me know if you need anything else. I've got your back on this one, Jack."

"Wilco. Thanks, Rob. I owe you big for this."

"Nah, this barely makes us square. Now go get her. You find her before the bus gets there, and she's hurt, you call and let me know. I can relay the info to the medics on board, and they'll be better prepared to help her."

"Roger that. O'Neill out."

He hung up the phone with an audible click, and firmly booted the gas pedal. His truck picked up speed, until he was racing down the highway. He hoped Makepeace had the sense to put out the word that he was going to be blowing through—the last thing he needed was to be pulled over for speeding.

"Hold on, Colonel," he muttered softly. "I'm coming. Just hold on."

He could only pray he wasn't too late.


	6. Chapter 6

The pouring rain nearly obscured mile marker 110, and it was by sheer luck that Jack managed to slam on his brakes without spinning out. He didn't hesitate to step into the deluge, that was now coming down in sheets so thick he could barely see the jagged hole in guardrail off to his right.

But he ignored the rivers running off his chin, and paused only long enough to pull the Maglite from the toolbox in the back. As soon as its familiar weight was in his hand, he sprinted for the twisted metal gap, his heart nearly choking him where it sat in his throat. He barely stopped to survey the terrain before he was sliding down the rocky embankment, following the trail of debris that only got worse as it went.

Glass sparkled in the beam of his flashlight, and pieces of car were strewn about haphazardly—a bumper here, a sideview mirror there… When Jack saw not one, but two wheels in his path, he nearly lost hope right then and there. But he shook it off, unwilling to accept the likelihood that all he'd find was a scrunched up cab with mangled bodies within.

And then, right at the bottom of the steep bank, was the truck.

All the windows were completely busted out, and the driver's side door was nearly off its hinges, but he could see someone within, limp against its seat belt.

"JENNIFER!"

Covering the remaining distance in an uncontrolled slide, Jack skidded into the truck's cab with a full body collision that rocked the ruined car and left his ears ringing. Wiping the rain from his face, he shone his flashlight on the shadowed form inside.

"Jennifer!"

It wasn't her.

It was some man he'd never seen before, bloody and limp.

He instinctively knew it was Romeo, but his fingers reached for a pulse in force of habit. He didn't pretend to feel remorse when he didn't find one.

Desperately, he looked deeper into the cab, searching for the passenger seat—that half of the cab was collapsed, a hopeless maze of crushed metal that no one could have survived.

It was dark, and the rain was thick, but Jack couldn't see any sign of a passenger.

For a brief moment, his heart lifted with hope before it came crashing back down again. If she wasn't in the car, then she was somewhere on the hill, or amidst the trees beyond the crash site. It meant that she was now unprotected and in the rain, and that she'd been thrown from the vehicle—the bastard hadn't even bothered to get a seatbelt on her.

He could hear his son's voice in his ear, telling him all he'd learned from a driver's ed class in school one day: Always wear a seatbelt, Dad, because it's always safer to be inside the car than out of it.

Truer words had never been spoken, and his son had never gone without a seatbelt. But now the words taunted him, reminding him that Jennifer might have escaped certain death inside the car, but that by no means ensured that she was still living outside of it. If she'd tumbled down the embankment without the car for protection, her chances were just as slim.

"Jennifer!"

His voice sounded muffled, even to him, but he shouted again, hoping to hear some sort of response in return. A groan, a shout, a curse, anything. He turned from the truck and began a search pattern, arcing back forth around the crash site. She wasn't on the embankment, he was sure of it—he would have seen her on his way down if she had been. "Jennifer! Can you hear me?"

"Jack!"

His heart lifted for a split second before he realized that the return shout was a man's voice. One he recognized.

"Hey, O'Neill! You down there?"

Jack peered back up the slope through the rain, and saw the beam of a flashlight blinking back at him. "That you, Makepeace?"

The beam flicked over to him, blinding him through the rain. "Yeah," the detective called back. "You find your girl?"

"Not yet!" he shouted. "We've got one KIA still in the vehicle—probably the perp. I think she got thrown from the vehicle."

Makepeace muttered a curse, Jack thought, though it was too muffled by the rain to be sure. "All right," he called down. "You keep looking, and I'll make sure the cavalry finds us. Don't move her, but try to keep her conscious—"

"I do have first aid training, Rob!" he interrupted, earning himself a chuckle from his old friend. "Just get that damn ambulance here! We're gonna need it!"

He hoped they'd need it. The alternative scared the hell out of him.

Jack left the slope, heading back towards the SUV's location. He approached the car in a wide, sweeping arc, hoping to find her on his way back—no dice. All he found was more debris, and that only made his gut sink further and further.

"Jennifer!" he called out. "Jennifer, can you hear me?"

Again, he got no answer. But he couldn't help but realize that even if she was awake, if she could answer—she probably wouldn't have the strength to answer loud enough for him to hear. When his search yielded nothing, he pushed further, sweeping the area beyond the SUV's final resting place with practiced ease.

He continued to call out, as much in an effort to make sure she knew he was coming as it was to earn a response. She had been alone for a long time. It had been for good reason, but now… she wouldn't be alone in this.

No one deserved to die alone in the rain, least of all her.

Then, his eyes caught on an irregularity in the landscape. At first, it was unrecognizable, and he hoped it wasn't her. But then he saw the fabric of a blouse, tight and twisted around a form unmoving. But as much as he hoped it wasn't her, his instincts had him sprinting the last dozen meters, sliding to his knees in the sharp gravel beside her.

His eyes searched her for signs of life, but none were forthcoming. He was reluctant to press too deeply for a pulse, knowing she'd likely sustained trauma to her neck. It wasn't until his fingers felt the faintest of warm breaths from her nose that he felt the first vestiges of relief creep over him. But the shadow of reality soon eclipsed even that, because there was no guarantee she'd remain breathing for much longer.

Her limp and contorted form made that truth abundantly clear.

She was facedown, her body twisted so that most of her weight was on her shoulder. The joint was grossly dislocated, and the way her neck was perilously bent gave Jack the sinking suspicion that her head had impacted the ground even before her shoulder had.

In the dark, he could see the blood gathering beneath her, too much for even the rain to wash away completely. He wanted to turn her over, as if seeing her face would reassure him that she was more than a broken corpse. But he was wary, reluctant to see what other injuries might be lurking beneath her.

"Jennifer, can you hear me?" His voice shook as his hands searched for one of hers. Anger and fear jolted through him when he felt the icy steel of the handcuffs binding her wrists. She'd been powerless to protect herself. "Jennifer, it's Jack… O'Neill. I—I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

There was no response whatsoever. No moan of pain, no flicker of her eyelids as she fought to regain consciousness. Nothing. Her skin was ice cold beneath his fingers as he searched for her pulse, and he almost recognized the chill of death—but then he found it.

It was weak, thread, nearly imperceptible. But he kept his fingers pressed firmly against the reassuring flutter of life nonetheless.

His mind numbly worked through his version of events, reflexively figuring how long she'd been out here—at least twenty minutes—and searching for any sign that she'd moved since the impact—there were none. All he could see were the dark furrows where she'd scraped along the gravel embankment, the puddling trenches stuttering in clear evidence of her body bouncing like a ragdoll before she'd come to rest where now lay.

It was a miracle she was still breathing at all.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

"You hear that, Jennifer?" he told her gently, even though he was almost certain she couldn't hear. "They're coming for you. You just gotta hold on a little longer, okay?"

He continued to talk to her, right up until a paramedic dropped down to his knees beside him.

"Excuse me, sir," the EMT said, feeling for a pulse himself. "Has she regained consciousness at all?"

"Not while I've been here," Jack responded. "Weak pulse, possible head trauma—"

"Detective Makepeace already briefed us on her circumstances," the younger man told him. "I understand there's a possibility she might've been drugged?"

Jack blinked. He hadn't even considered that—it could explain why she was completely unresponsive… He wasn't sure if that was better than a traumatic brain injury or not. There was a significant chance of the possibilities doubling into something even more dangerous.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess so."

The EMT nodded. "All right, let's get a C-collar on her, and get her to the hospital."

Jack fell back to let the medics get to work. They were quick and efficient, and before long their patient was loaded carefully onto a back board. He stayed close as they carried her back up to the road, and climbed into the ambulance as soon as she was secure.

In the pale light of the ambulance's interior, Jack almost wished it was still dark. Because now he could see the extent of the damage that had been done. Her left brow and cheek were shredded and still oozing blood in sickening volume, with pieces of gravel still embedded deep in the torn tissue.

He could also see now that both shoulders were dislocated, not just the one, though the second wasn't nearly so grotesquely contorted. Silver glinted at her wrists in the wan light offered by the overhead fluorescents, and a thought occurred to him abruptly.

"Wait," he told the medics before they could close the doors behind them. "Hey, Makepeace, get over here!"

His old friend obeyed at a trot, but paled at the sight of the battered woman strapped to the gurney. "Mary mother of god," he exhaled sharply. He recovered quickly though, his pitying gaze sharpening as it shifted to Jack. "What do you need?"

"You got a key to the handcuffs?"

Rob's eyes widened, but then he nodded. "Yeah," he said patting his pockets down. He pulled out a small key and deposited it in Jack's palm. Jack climbed into the back of the ambulance, and showed the key to the medic, asking permission. The man nodded.

"Do it quick, but be careful. We're about to leave."

Jack looked at him briefly. "I'm going with you guys," he stated bluntly.

"Sir—"

"I'm staying." His voice cut through the protest like a hot knife through butter. His tone dared the young medic to try changing his mind. Luckily, the man knew when the battle was lost.

The EMT nodded, then closed the doors, shutting all three of them inside.

Jack carefully maneuvered the handcuffs from her wrists as the ambulance began to move. He winced when he saw the broken skin and smeared blood. Her wrists were swollen and bruised as well, and the medic carefully ran his fingers over them, assessing the injury.

"Right wrist fracture… the left may just be a sprain," he said. But that was all the thought he gave to it. Jack looked at him, and the medic shrugged. "A broken wrist is the least of her worries."

Jack nodded, understanding.

The trip to the hospital was tense. The medics were in constant motion, trying to keep her heart rate steady and strong. They rattled off injuries to each other as they were discovered, and they washed over Jack like the rain outside—white noise. His focus remained solely on her, though even that only went so far.

He couldn't ignore the head wound that didn't want to stop bleeding, and it wasn't until almost halfway to their destination that they realized her abdomen was discolored and rigid with internal bleeding.

They'd strapped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth as soon as they'd gotten her on the backboard, but as they drew closer to the hospital, her breaths became more and more labored. Five minutes from the ER, they ceased completely.

"We gotta intubate!" a medic declared, already in motion. His partner moved into position, carefully moving Jennifer's jaw down. His partner passed him a tube, and in moments it was expertly slid into her mouth and down her throat. A second later his right hand was pumping away at the attached bag, breathing for his patient with a steady rhythm.

Jack's hands remained folded in front of him, the sides of his knuckles tapping nervously against his lips. His eyes were glued to her limp form, even as his thoughts raced. For the first time in years, he found himself praying—praying that this wasn't actually happening, that she would pull through, that the damage wasn't really as bad as it looked, that he hadn't gotten to her too late.

His prayers went unanswered until they pulled up outside the hospital, and the heart monitor began to sound off with a rapid crescendo of quickening blips. Then, the cacophony died to a single steady whine.

"Heart's stopped!" a medic shouted, even as the doors were flung open and the chaos of the hospital spilled inside.

"Clear!"

Jack was so distracted by the arrival of the ER personnel that the sound of the defibrillator discharging took him completely off guard. He turned back towards Jennifer just in time to hear the medic shout, "Again!"

This time, he saw the paddles come down, and saw her body spasm woodenly on the gurney before falling lifeless once more.

"Charging!" came the shout for a third time. "Clear!"

Again, her battered body jerked lazily, but this time, against all odds, it was rewarded with a somewhat steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.

"She's back!"

"Get her to OR one!"

"Let's go, people, before we lose her again!"

"Go, go, go!"

And just like that, Jack was left alone in the ambulance, belatedly regaining his senses and trotting after them. He followed until she was rolled around a corner and an orderly stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"You can't go back there, sir," he was told. "She's going straight to surgery, so you'll have to stay in the waiting room." When he didn't say anything, the orderly seemed to take pity on him. "Are you family, sir?"

The question shook him from his thoughts.

"No," he answered.

"Does she have any family you could contact?" the woman continued softly. "It'll keep you busy, and… they should be here."

She could die, was what she was really saying. But you don't ever say anything like that in a hospital, because it would only be asking for the unthinkable to happen. But he knew that what she was hinting at was a very real possibility. All too real.

"No," he delivered finally. "There's no one."

He couldn't exactly call that Daniel Jackson, or Colonel Mitchell. He didn't know who her handlers were, or how to contact them, let alone getting a hold of her friends directly.

But someone needed to know.

His thoughts began to wander, trying to figure out who to inform and how to do it. The whole situation was far beyond his pay grade, and that of his direct superiors. General Landry wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, and that left him absolutely no one he knew by name to get hold of.

In the end, he called Makepeace again.

"Hey, Jack," the detective answered. Jack could hear the static of rain still falling on the other end of the line. He was still at the scene. "Any word on your girl yet?"

Jack swallowed thickly. "No, not yet." When had Jennifer become his girl? "She, uh… She's in surgery."

"That's good, Jack. She needed it."

Jack sighed. "Look, I need you to do one more thing for me, Rob."

"For this one? Name it."

"I need you to run her name through the database. Jennifer Blaine. B-L-A—"

"I know how to spell it, Jack. But are you looking for anything in particular?" Jack could hear the curiosity in his voice.

"No. Nothing. Just… run it a couple times. Maybe a dozen."

Silence answered him.

"She involved with something bad, Jack?" the detective queried, his voice a cross between concern and offence. "Is that what this is all about?"

Jack hesitated. "Her name is flagged in the system." It was all he could give his friend. "Run it a dozen times, and it'll get someone's attention. When they call, send them to me, all right? I'm staying here at the hospital."

A grumble sounded through the speaker, and it sounded suspiciously like a curse. "All right," Makepeace answered finally. "Yeah, I'll do it. But you know I hate the feds. You'll owe me one this time, Jack."

"I owe you ten for this one, Rob."

And he did. If the detective had hesitated or hedged for even a second, Jack wouldn't have found her in time. She wouldn't have lasted as long as she had. She'd be dead, alone at the bottom of a ditch in a world that was not her own.

Yeah, he owed him a lot for this one.

He hung up the phone and glanced around the nearly empty waiting room. And then he realized that until her handlers got the message and decided to finally join the party, he had nothing to do but wait. First he sat, but soon stood, then inevitably began pacing the room.

It was hours before anyone came out to give him an update. They told him they were still working on her—her skull was fractured, her brain was swelling and compounded by an intercranial bleed. On top of that they were still trying to repair the internal bleeding; they'd already had to remove her spleen and part of her liver. Her struggle to breathe in the ambulance had been the result of a punctured lung, but all things considered it was the least of her injuries.

It was eight hours after he'd gotten her phone call that her handlers finally showed.

They glared at him as they asked for her condition, and then demanded to see her. He tried to tell them that she was still in surgery, but it wasn't until a doctor came out to tell them they were restricted to the waiting room that they backed down. They ordered a full sit-rep from Jack, which he delivered with barely concealed disgust.

When he mentioned Romeo, the two agents shared a look that told Jack all he needed to know.

"You knew that this creep was after her?" he asked, fixing them all with a glare. "You didn't think to put her under protection?"

"She had to maintain a low profile, Colonel O'Neill," one of them said sharply. "We've done all we could short of putting a tail on her, which is out of the question given her circumstances."

"All you could? Are you telling me, that as Witness Protection, all you could means she ends up getting abducted and nearly murdered?"

"We know how to do our jobs—"

"You don't know shit," he growled, his voice dangerously low. "You two look like cops who've spent too much time in the donut shop, not the case officers for someone whose very existence is above top secret. You're jokes, both of you."

"Colonel O'Neill—"

"Who do you report to? I want their name and number. Tomorrow morning, you'll be lucky to find work flipping burgers—"

"Sir?" A new voice cut through his growing rage and his attention shifted to the young doctor standing in the doorway, still decked out in green scrubs and a blue hairnet. His gut dropped out from under him.

"She's out of surgery," the doctor revealed.

Jack's eyes widened in surprise. "What?"

"She's not out of the woods yet, and it's not looking good, but we've done all we can for now. She's stable at the moment, but we suspect we'll have to take her back in for another surgery before she improves. We will monitor her closely—she's at a very high risk for continued bleeding, and I doubt we've seen the last of that brain injury… But for now she's alive."

Jack didn't need them to tell him to know that fact was a miracle in and of itself. The idiots he'd been reaming faded from his awareness as some modicum of relief coursed through his veins, and he moved closer to the doctor, his intentions clear.

"I wanna see her," he said bluntly.

The doctor shook his head. "Not yet. She's not stable enough for that. But," he acquiesced, "if you'd like we can go somewhere more private to discuss her condition in greater detail…"

"We will be there as well," one of the case officers interrupted, earning himself a glare from Jack that made the man almost visibly shrink away.

"Like hell," he snarled. "Consider yourselves relieved of duty."

"You can't do that-!"

Without warning, Jack spun on his heel and gripped the man by the lapels. With one vicious jerk he slammed the marshal into the nearest wall, and leaned in close until their noses nearly touched.

"You assholes nearly got that woman killed. I don't care if you're incompetent, or just damn lazy, but either way, you're not ever gonna get your hands on her again." With one last vicious shove, Jack released his victim. "Now get the hell out of my sight."

For a long moment, the man tried to stare him down, but Jack refused to yield even a fraction of an inch. He continued to glare at the slick, greasy bastard with all the ferocity burning in the pit of his stomach, until the man finally broke eye contact, thereby yielding the play for power.

The weasel straightened his tie and resettled his cheap suit jacket on his shoulders as he turned away. Jack waited until the marshal jerked his head at his partner and led the way out of the ER. Then, and only then, did he turn back to the doctor who still hovered in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise.

"Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7

The following days were tense, and Jack's gut remained in a tight knot for the duration.

Not only did he worry about the woman he'd escorted in, but her case officers managed to have one last hurrah before being officially remanded back to whatever desk they usually drove, giving him another headache on top of the migraine he already had.

Not two hours after being released from surgery, a private medical transport arrived at the hospital, declaring that they'd been ordered to move Jennifer to a private medical facility. They even presented the doctors with a federal mandate, but the hospital wasn't stupid. And fortunately for Jennifer, her attendings weren't the limp noodles the marshals had expected them to be.

All medical personnel involved with her care staunchly refused to allow her to be moved, a stance reinforced by the fact that she crashed even as the marshals' goons were trying to strong arm them into relinquishing their patient.

She'd been rushed right back to the OR without giving the malingerers a second glance, their Hippocratic oath the doctors' personal shield against the might of the federal government. And even after they managed to stabilize her a second time, her surgeons refused to release her for transport until they were confident she would survive the trip.

Which they weren't, for almost five days. And in those five days, Jennifer's face swelled to such proportions that her identity was obscured beyond recognition, which appeased the feds enough to back off some. Jack understood the concern—it'd be hard to slap a non-disclosure agreement on an entire building.

But his priority was the woman clinging to life in the ICU. From the moment he'd gotten that phone call, Jennifer had become his responsibility. If no one else was going to care about her, at least he would.

That's what he told himself.

It was several days before the doctors dared to even hope for survival beyond the hour. They cleared the ICU of all other patients, and a protection detail—too little too late, in Jack's opinion—was posted at each of the exits. The official story was that she was a confidential witness, some muckety-muck testifier whose identity had to remain secret at all costs. They'd tried to remove him as well, but Jack didn't dare leave, and they didn't dare push the issue. He spent every moment the doctor's gave him at her side. But despite his dedication, he nearly lost her.

It was only by the grace of god that General Landry got him clearance to remain involved in her care. And eventually, it was the General who authorized him to ride along to the new location when the transfer was eventually made. That call came at the eleventh hour, when the security detail was busy barring him from getting into the physician's transport after his charge.

But when the lead marshal's hand went to his ear, listening to the orders being routed to him, Jack barely spared the man a triumphant smirk before he climbed in next to Jennifer. Her newly commissioned doctor joined him, and then they were off. He spent the three hour ride holding Jennifer's hand—the one that was only lightly bandaged.

She was so heartbreakingly fragile that it was the only part of her he was willing to risk touching. A ventilator still breathed for her, her right arm was immobilized by bandages and a sling, and he couldn't even begin to count the wires and tubes that continued to keep her alive.

In the tense hours trapped in the back of the transport, his mind inappropriately jumped to one of Charlie's first Halloweens, when Sara had dressed him as a mummy. It wasn't funny, not even to him, but she was so heavily swathed in bandages that he just couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering into the dangerous territory that was his sense of humor.

She hadn't once regained consciousness since her surgery—since she'd been found, really—and had yet to so much as twitch. Every time he glanced at her too-still form, his gut wrenched painfully, but he refused to give up hope. She would recover from this. He would not consider the fact she might permanently remain so unnervingly unresponsive. He refused to believe that her eyes would never open again.

He remained with her at the new hospital. It was roomier than the county hospital, giving him plenty of room to sit at her bedside. More than that, he was unwilling to trust her protection to anyone else. He half expected the two weasels who'd been assigned her protection to show up at the new facility—a government-run facility complete with guards and security clearances for all—but he'd been surprised when it was General Landry himself who knocked on the door almost 48 hours after the transfer.

"Should've known you'd still be here, Colonel," the older man drawled from the doorway, interrupting Jack's lazy stream of thoughts as he'd lingered in the realm between sleep and awake. Jack looked up to meet the General's somewhat amused gaze.

Any other time, his expression would have seemed kindly, or amiable, but at that moment Jack felt only that now-familiar rage at the fact that Landry seemed so unaffected by the woman lying comatose on the bed in front of them.

"I don't know where else you'd expect me to be, General," he finally settled for, tucking his anger far out of sight.

"What I mean is that I familiarized myself with Colonel Carter's long list of violations regarding her WITSEC agreement—"

"What violations?" Jack interrupted sharply, twisting in his chair to look at the retired General.

Landry eyed him, then sighed softly. "I know her last location was Chicago—her handlers should've known she wouldn't be able to stay away from you. The Air Force apologizes for any inconvenience she may have caused you—"

"Inconvenience?" Jack ran a hand over his face in an attempt to smooth away some of his anger and frustration. It didn't really work. "General, with all due respect, Colonel Carter has kept within the confines of her WITSEC agreement with expert precision. She didn't seek me out…"

Landry's brow arched skeptically. "Then how did you end up at the hospital with her, Colonel?"

Jack sighed. "She called me."

"Which is a direct violation of the agreement—"

"An agreement that says she gets federal and personal protection in exchange for her cooperation. That's the part of the agreement that was violated, General, or didn't you read the part of the report where she was attacked and abducted by a stalker? A stalker her handlers knew about!"

"I read that," the General acquiesced. "We'd hoped he wouldn't be a problem…"

Jack blinked. "You knew?" Landry's eyes answered that for him. "For how long?"

"Since she was put into the program. We've been aware of Mission Commander Carter's less savory admirers since before her death. We figured they would have moved on since the shuttle failure. We now know that Pete Shanahan remained persistent."

"And you didn't tell her? Didn't you think it was something she had the right to know about?"

The General's shoulders squared under the not so subtle reprimand. "There was no reason to alarm her prematurely—"

"So when were you gonna let her know? When he sent his first note? When he left the first gift on her front step? How about when he broke into her house and tore it to pieces looking for the bugs your stooges put in it? Or maybe when she wakes up from her coma, you'll see fit to tell her why she was allowed to be targeted by a known threat—"

"Do not overstep your bounds, Colonel," Landry inserted deftly, his tone that of a seasoned officer on the brink of writing up insubordination charges. "She still had your phone number, which she acquired against the stipulations of her protection agreement."

"A number she used only once, when her life was in imminent danger," Jack countered, undaunted. "And I gave her that number. She didn't steal it or obtain it through illegal means."

Landry paused. "Are you telling me you sought her out?"

"Hell, no. Sir," he added belatedly. "I ran into her on a train one night, and a few weeks later I saw her again at a coffee shop. I helped her out of a situation with the locals, took her home—and gave her my number if the guy who trashed her house ever came back."

A sigh answered him. "And yet you didn't see fit to inform her handlers that the perpetrator had escalated?"

"You mean those sleazebags? I never once saw those idiots. Not on the train, or at the coffee shop, or at her house. She asked me not to tell them, and I doubted I'd get anywhere looking for their information myself, so I didn't. That's why I gave her my number. And I'm glad I did, because if I hadn't she'd be dead at the bottom of a ravine, and the way you stuffed shirts up in Washington have it, no one else in the world would have known—"

"You are coming very close to insubordination, Colonel," Landry warned, "and last I checked, you approved of the decision keep the three of them separate. Or are you beginning to change your mind regarding your convictions?"

"I'm not about to let my kid die, if that's what you're implying," Jack returned with a growl. "But maybe separating them from the only people they know wasn't the best solution."

"What do you mean?"

"General, they were heroes in their world. They deserve better than being relegated to second-class citizens."

"They are a security risk, Colonel O'Neill—"

"And who says this isn't exactly what we accused them of doing?" The thoughts that had been circling his brain for the past week came spilling out. Jack's own guilt sparked, and his anger only threw gasoline on the flame. "We're terrified that they'll reinstate their own timeline and erase the lives of everyone on the planet. But right now, what we're doing, sir… We've erased everything they ever were. And Samantha Carter got the shit end of the stick. She's a hero, sir. She deserves more than this."

"Son…"

"No, sir. If Colonel Samantha Carter had died, then she would have died faceless and nameless, without anyone knowing her story. Isn't that what we find so dangerous about them? That we'll be the ones dying without our stories told?"

The General had no answer. Jack returned to his seat, his head heavy as he ran a hand over tired eyes. His gaze drifted back to the woman lying on the bed, the sound of the ever steady ventilator suddenly deafening in the issuing silence.

"They're a security risk, Colonel," Landry reiterated finally. "That's the bottom line. If we allow them regular contact, they'll want to figure out a way to reinstate their own timeline. We have a duty to everyone on this planet to not let that happen."

"I know," Jack answered, his voice low with regret. "But… it doesn't feel right."

It felt like his black ops days, before he had given up that life for a training gig. He'd been glad to leave behind that sinking feeling in his gut each time he'd taken a life, feeling part of his soul bleed away with each kill, knowing that the name of the greater good didn't quite deny culpability.

"I want to stay here," he said finally, firmly. "Make me an honorary Marshal or something, because there's no way I'm letting those jokers have her again."

The General seemed surprised by the request masked by declaration. He considered it for a moment, weighing the benefits against the detractions.

At first glance, it seemed dangerous to allow the Colonel his request. He was already becoming sympathetic to the woman's story, and that in itself was a threat. But at the same time, Landry knew O'Neill had a vested interest in this world, this timeline, and he also knew that the Colonel would sooner cut out his own heart than let harm come to that boy of his.

And, he reasoned, building a rapport with Colonel Carter could end up being beneficial to them, even if it was through Colonel Jack O'Neill. Who knew? Maybe this knock to the head will have made her a little friendlier towards authority.

Tact stung his mind at the uncouth thought, but he shrugged it off. They needed an edge, and if it ended up being this woman, then so be it.

"I'll make some calls," he acquiesced, drawing the other man's gaze back up to him. "Until then you're on temporary orders to oversee protection detail for Jennifer Blaine, federal witness to a classified case."

A tense breath issued from O'Neill, almost visibly deflating him in relief. "Thank you, sir," Jack said, his voice tired.

"Don't thank me yet, Colonel. This mess is going to get worse before it gets better, and you just requested yourself into the lion's den."


	8. Chapter 8

It was three weeks before the doctors felt confident enough to wean Jennifer off the ventilator. The resulting silence was terrifying without the reassuring whoosh of the machine, and now she was so still she seemed even closer to death. The doctors claimed she was improving, and they were beginning to ease her off the meds keeping her comatose as well.

She should wake up any day, they said.

But she didn't.

Once off the ventilator, nothing happened. She didn't move, she didn't wake—she didn't do anything.

It was only him and her in the room—nurses and doctors were her only other visitors. After the first week, he'd read all the magazines in the hospital, it felt like, so he'd taken to talking to her.

He told her everything his world was. He talked to her about his family, both what it used to be and what it was now. He shared stories—albeit somewhat censored ones— from his and Kowalsky's days in black ops together. He told her about his cabin in the Minnesotan woods, and all the little things that meant absolutely nothing at all.

There was something to be said for a captive audience, he realized. The trip down memory lane was cathartic, and left him feeling lighter than he had in months. And when memory lane ran out of road, he pulled onto the boulevard of possibilities.

He wondered about all the what ifs. He asked her which decisions he'd made differently in her timeline and how each little fork in the road might've changed everything. One day he spun his life as an astronaut—the next he'd owned a private fishing charter.

He never got any sort of answer to any of his theories, but he wasn't really looking for one. And he didn't know exactly when he began to believe the story she'd told on the submarine, about being from some sort of alternate reality, but he could no longer deny that he did.

Maybe it was the fact she'd shown absolutely no knowledge of Mission Commander Carter's life, which blew his long lost twin theory out of the water. And she'd never once faltered in her story, the same story all three of them gave, which gave his theory that she was somehow Mission Commander Carter with some sort of head trauma a swift kick in the pants.

But the more he thought about it, the more he came to accept the possibility that the bizarre and utterly ridiculous sci-fi reality she so ardently believed in.

As her coma drew on, the doctors grew increasingly concerned. After three weeks with no sign of her awakening, and the swelling in her brain resolved to the best of their knowledge, they decided to take her off all the pain meds too. They hoped the excruciating pain she'd be in without them would wake her—and eventually they were proven right.

Nearly a day after they'd declared her completely drug-free, he felt her fingers move for the first time in nearly a month. It came halfway through another of his what-ifs—this time with him and Charlie as partners of the bank-robbing persuasion—when the first flicker of movement under his hand made him freeze.

And then he spent the next hours peering closely at her, watching her work her way into consciousness. Her breaths shortened, becoming more irregular as the pain got worse. And even though he was anticipating it, the first sliver of blue eyes that emerged from her lids took his breath away.

It took her several tries to open her eyes completely, but when she finally succeeded, they rested on him for one heart-stopping moment.

Something akin to blurry confusion crossed her features, but before he could voice any sort of reassurance or promise of safety, her eyes rolled away, disappearing once more as a wave of pain washed over her. Her eyes drifted shut, and if it weren't for the weak pressure she kept up on his fingers, he'd have thought she might've slipped back into her unnatural sleep.

He called the doctor in, and somehow she managed to pass the most basic of response tests. Jack listened to the doctors talk amongst themselves, catching hints of Glasgow scales and non-alertness. But he refused to let go of her hand, even when her muscles began to clench—decerebrate rigidity, the doctors said. But once the first rounds of tests were done, they finally put her back on the painkillers, and she relaxed once more into sleep.

The next few days, the process continued. She would wake for moments at a time, meet his gaze, and then fall back into her deep, healing slumber. Then one morning she woke up, hazy but coherent. For the first time, Jack watched her register her surroundings, and saw the confusion as she didn't recognize where she was.

"Where'm I?" she slurred, her voice rough from disuse.

Jack sat forward in his chair, the movement capturing her attention. "You're in the hospital," he told her gently. His thumb traced light circles on the back of her hand. "You're safe, I promise."

Her head followed her gaze, turning towards him as her brow furrowed. The simple movement elicited a slight grimace that twisted her features for a split second. A soft breath lifted her chest as she labored to gather her thoughts enough to speak.

When she finally issued her rasping query, her words were only slightly more clear, but they cut through him like a knife to the heart.

"Who're you?"


	9. Chapter 9

In the end, she didn't remember anything.

Not him, not the reason she was in the hospital—not even her own name, fake or otherwise. The head injury had done more damage than they'd all realized, and the doctors had no idea whether the effects would last. There was no way to tell if the amnesia was permanent, or even whether it was a result of physical damage rather than a psychological attempt to protect the psyche.

As far as Jack was concerned, it was all a bunch of medical mumbo-jumbo. All he knew was that his impromptu charge, this amazingly bizarre woman who twisted him in knots, was even more alone than she'd been before. She didn't even have her memories to keep her company now.

For weeks she remained in a haze of painkillers and shock, and every time she woke up he had to remind her of who she was and where she was. Sometimes, she fell back asleep again before he could even get past her name.

Jack knew from experience that head wounds were tricky. Brain scans could be normal as could be, but the thoughts inside could still be as scrambled as an overdone omelet. A man could have all of his memories but absolutely none of the personality that tied him to them, or vice versa. It was terrifying, in a way, how easily the sense of self could be damaged.

He dutifully alerted Landry once she'd regained consciousness the first time, but it was the doctors who informed the General of her apparent memory loss. So when the General showed up, two weeks after her memory showed no sign of recuperation, it came as a surprise to Jack.

"What've you been telling her, Colonel?" the older man asked bluntly. There was no accusation in his voice, but Jack bristled against the inquiry anyways.

"Just the official story," he returned. "Her name's Jennifer Blaine—"

"Don't."

Jack blinked. "Don't what, sir?"

"An executive decision has been made. Colonel Carter is to resume her identity as Samantha Carter."

Jack's gut clenched on instinct. Something was off.

"And what do you suppose we tell her about how she came to be here, General? I think she's confused enough right now without having to try to explain that she's from an alternate universe, sir. Which, I might add, I still don't really get."

"You misunderstand, Colonel." The General took a swig from the coffee cup he held in his hand. "I was referring to Mission Commander Samantha Carter, not Colonel Carter."

A beat of silence passed.

"You've lost me, sir."

"This country needs a hero, Colonel, and we are in the rare situation of being able to make one. As you said, she's a hero in her world—we want her to be one in ours as well."

"So you want to brainwash her into being the Mission Commander?" Jack posed, his tone carefully, painstakingly neutral. "And what happens when she starts to remember who she really is? Do you really want to be on the receiving end of that revelation?"

"There is significant damage to the memory portions of her brain, Colonel. There's no guarantee she'll even develop enough long term memory to remember she's the Mission Commander, let alone who she was before the incident."

"So you're willing to destroy everything she was in the hopes that one, she'll recover enough to become your lap dog and two, that she won't ever recover enough to regain her own memories? What happens when she sees her own obituary, General? You think she won't ask questions then?"

"She'll get the same story the rest of the world gets," the General delivered calmly. "Her shuttle went down over the Atlantic. We know from footage that a large part of the shuttle survived the descent—she was onboard, miraculously survived, but was swept away by the currents before the rescue teams could arrive. She washed up comatose on a remote Caribbean island, and was cared for in a native hospital until some lost tourist stopped in for directions and recognized her."

"Comatose on a remote island? Really?" Jack scoffed. "All the brain power the Joint Chiefs have at their disposal and that's the best they could come up with?"

The General arched a brow, silently waiting for him to get back on track. Jack sighed.

"You don't think anybody will question that?" he pointed out savagely. "What happens when they find out there's no tourist and no documentation that she was ever there?"

"We have both the tourist and photographic evidence on hand, Colonel, ready to testify that Mission Commander Carter was found injured and unresponsive in some medicine man's hut in the middle of the Caribbean. And quite frankly, Jack, it won't really matter if they believe where she's been or not. They won't ever consider the possibility of an alternate reality, and they will not ever be able to discern the difference between this Samantha Carter and the one who died saving her crew."

Jack glared at him. "A hero's sacrifice that you're willing to cheapen to have a celebrity in your pocket," he bit out angrily. "That's sick—"

"The alternative, Colonel, is to remand Colonel Samantha Carter into custody, whereby she will be surrendered for testing at a government facility."

Jack froze. "Testing? What the hell do you mean testing?"

"The doctors here have found something highly unusual in the Colonel's blood—some protein marker they've never seen before, along with a mineral not naturally occurring on Earth. Inquiries have been made, and the scientists at the administration's disposal have expressed an interest in studying the Colonel in closer detail."

"You mean turn her into a human guinea pig! A science experiment!" Jack cut in. "General, you can't let them do that—"

"They were already preparing to transfer her to the science department before Romeo made his move—she's had too many run-ins with an observant public to justify yet another re-location. Pete Shanahan's interference only delayed things."

Jack felt the burn of panic rush over him, even as the General continued.

"But," he drawled tensely, "I've managed to pull some strings, talked to the right people, and so far, they agree that we need a national hero more than we need a secret science project."

Relief came gladly, but was quickly overshadowed by the weight of the choice he was now saddled with. "So she assumes the mantle of the Mission Commander, or she turns into a human pincushion."

"It's unsavory, I agree, but the decision has been made, Colonel. Your only input on the subject is whether you will remain on hand to assist Mission Commander Carter's recuperation, or if another handler will have to be read in on the situation."

The ultimatum hit Jack like a kick to the gut.

So this was what it had come down to. The government had found an opportunity and snapped it up like a juicy bone. Never mind that the woman was vulnerable, barely lucid, and had a life of her own that, if her tale was to believed, was more glorious than anything they could devise for her here.

And Jack was stuck smack in the middle—damned if he did, damned if he didn't. If he left, refused to participate in the brainwashing, it wouldn't help her. Her fate was already sealed. The only difference would be that the person watching her back would be looking out for the government's interests, not her own.

With a sinking heart, Jack new that there was only one decision he could make, and still be able to live with himself.

"I'll do it," he conceded with a growl.

Landry gave a half-smile that couldn't be read as anything other condescending. "Good," he returned with false brightness. He handed Jack a thick manila envelope, officially signed and stamped. "This is everything you need to know about Mission Commander Carter. Learn it, and when the time comes, relay the information to her as many times as necessary."

Jack nodded, accepting the packet. Landry shot a final look towards the woman lying unconscious on the bed before departing without another word. Jack watched him leave, an indeterminate expression in his features. How had everything gone pear-shaped so quickly?

He barely had time to think about it. A sound from behind him alerted him to his charge's increasing wakefulness. And this time she was alert enough to panic at the realization that she had no idea where she was. It didn't happen every time, and he chose to take it as a good thing when it did.

He was at her side in an instant, gently capturing her trembling hand in his own. By now, the swelling of her wrists had diminished, leaving behind yellowing bruises. Her right arm had been so badly damaged not even a secondary surgery could fully repair the damage. The doctors doubted she would ever regain full use, or that the pain would ever fully diminish. At the moment it lay trapped immobile in a sling to give the tendons and rotator cuff the chance to heal from the surgery, braced to the very tips of her fingers.

It was her left hand he held, and her long fingers curled instinctively around his.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked gently.

They'd developed a sort of script since her recovery from the coma. He asked the same questions in the same order, hoping that the repetition might help her form a memory that would stick. So far, it hadn't been successful, because just like every time before, her brow furrowed.

Her head shook a no before she clenched her eyes against the blinding pain that seemed to accompany any sort of movement on her part.

"Do you remember your name?"

She hesitated, just as she always did, searching for an answer, only for a tear to escape the corner of her eye when she came up empty.

"No," she whispered, having learned that the pain of moving was worse than the hoarse rasp of her voice.

Without thinking, Jack reached out and brushed the tear from her cheek. Once there, his hand paused, pressing against her skin in a show of sobering solidarity. For a moment, he thought he saw some of the fear abate in her gaze as she focused on him.

He pulled his hand away slowly, reminding himself that she was just as confused as he was.

"It's okay," he told her, returning to the script. Only this time, there was to be a permanent change to the routine. Jennifer was officially dead. "It's Samantha."

Confusion darkened her eyes.

"Your name is Samantha Carter," he elaborated, "and you're safe. Everything's going to be all right. I promise."


	10. Chapter 10

Jack's patience proved more resilient than he'd ever given himself credit for.

As her ability to remain awake grew, Samantha's condition was made even more concerning. Physical injuries aside—for they remained numerous, and were slow to heal—the most pressing remained her memory.

It seemed as though her short-term memory lasted only so long as she remained completely focused. The moment her attention wavered, the moment her thoughts wandered, she lost it all again.

Sometimes, it was just facts she lost. Jack would be talking, and one minute she'd be listening intently, the next she'd be distracted by a sound or a bird outside the window. When she turned back, she'd have forgotten his name and what he'd been telling her. But those were easy enough to work with.

The trouble came when she lost everything—she'd forget where she was, that she was safe… all of it.

The end result was so physically jarring that even Jack could read it in her expression before she could even start to panic. And panic she did. The nurses soon became used to delivering a light sedative to help keep her calm if needed, and some days they were constantly coming in and out in response to the rapidly beeping spikes in her heart monitor.

But every time it happened, he explained everything one more time. Calmly, patiently, he'd tell her what her name was, what hospital she was in. He even told her the cause of her injuries—which he'd judiciously and simply termed an accident. He refused to confuse her with the cover story, and figured she didn't need to know about Romeo. Not when she'd just forget again.

The bastard was dead, and he would stay that way.

The doctors encouraged him to let her rest as much as possible, and he obeyed without protest. It was clear she needed the sleep, and that it did her good—each time she woke up, despite the newest lapse in memory, her eyes were brighter, sharper.

For weeks she drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes gradually, but more often at the drop of a hat. The doctors assured him it wasn't worrisome for her to drop off in the middle of a sentence, especially with a head injury like hers. As long as she kept waking up, there wasn't any immediate concern.

He could do nothing but wait, and be there whenever she opened her eyes. In time, he grew familiar with those eyes—to the point where he could even picture them in his sleep. Sometimes he continued to speak when she slept, in low tones that could barely qualify as a murmur. He couldn't prove it, but he could swear that she seemed a little more at ease when she woke if he did, as though the sound of his voice had remained familiar when every other memory had fled her mind.

She healed, but even as she did, new problems seem to arise. She had migraines—fierce, blinding, pounding headaches that left her in tears until someone dosed her with something. They came on almost without warning, and each time preceded a flush of recent memory. In the rare instances she recovered enough to converse before falling into an exhausted sleep, she'd forgotten again.

Her injured leg and shoulder both lost mobility—the doctors were unsure whether she'd be able to regain full use. And to make things worse, she couldn't do any conventional physiotherapy, since even the action of nodding her head ran the risk of triggering a migraine.

She lost weight, weight she couldn't afford to lose. Even when not suffering a migraine, she was constantly nauseous, and had difficulty keeping any sort of food down. The doctors said it could either be a result of the brain damage or a side effect of the many medications she was on.

Whatever the reason, it meant a G-tube was needed to provide the bare minimum of food she could manage. Between that and the IV, she remained hydrated and got the nutrients she needed, but it wasn't enough—she was still painfully thin.

And on top of all that, as if all that wasn't enough, she had these… lapses. Episodes, really, where she just seemed to lose it. Sometimes she rattled on and on in gibberish, speaking to him as calmly as if they were talking about the weather. Other times she threw fits, shouting accusations of snake and goold (or was it gold? He could never tell...) at the doctors and nurses who were assigned to her.

He was the only one who never received such accusations. In fact, he was often the one who calmed her, brought her back to reality long enough for her to be safely sedated. He was the one she begged for help, when she saw monsters everywhere she looked. But even he did not remain escape unscathed.

He would never admit to anyone, but sometimes he heard her call him a fifth—a fifth of what, he didn't know, but it was thrown at him with such scathing abhorrence that it made his hair curl. It made no sense to him, but his skin crawled regardless. He asked her what she'd meant once, when she was lucid, but she didn't remember any of it.

To him that was proof enough that her brains were scrambled. He could only hope that the damage might resolve itself, as the doctors remained optimistic that it might do just that. The human brain is a powerful thing, they said, as if that explained everything. As if waiting was all it took.

They didn't mention the constant ache of worry, or the headaches that came with the knowledge that she was just as likely to worsen as she was to improve. The only thing that kept him sane were the brief moments she was both awake and lucid, and they could almost have a conversation.

Eventually, he came to trust in her as much as she seemed to trust in him. He trusted in her to heal—she'd survived in the Arctic, she'd survived as Jennifer Blaine, and she'd survived a car wreck that still gave him nightmares. He trusted in her because he knew that if anyone could recover from this, she could.

Because the doctors were wrong. The human brain wasn't capable of anything. Not just any human brain anyway.

Her brain, on the other hand...

Her brain made its own fate.


	11. Chapter 11

Almost a month after she woke up, Jack showed up at the hospital one morning—after a rare night at home to shower, sleep, and catch up with Charlie—to find Samantha's bed empty, with two nurses and a doctor hovering warily nearby, their gazes locked on the corner hidden by the bed.

"What's going on—" he rounded the bed, and discovered Samantha huddled in the niche, one leg drawn up to her chest; her other, injured leg splayed out awkwardly in front of her, the bandages already tinged pink where they peeked out below the edge of her thin hospital gown.

Her eyes were wild, and obviously scared out of her mind. Immediately, Jack turned to the staff.

"Give me a few minutes with her," he urged softly, keeping his voice low.

"Sir, she—"

"You're scaring her," he cut in. This guy wasn't one of the usual docs. The usual docs knew better than to argue with him by now—he always got her calm. "You don't have to go far, but as long as you're in here it'll be that much harder to calm her down."

"You think you can get through to her?"

Jack hesitated. He wanted to say yes—the past week or so, her recognition of him had been spotty at best, but she was definitely not as wary of him as she'd first been. It was as if they'd established a baseline of trust that remained constant, despite her lapses in memory. And he was counting on that trust to help her now.

"We'll have to see," he said finally. "Just give me five minutes, okay? If I haven't gotten anywhere, then we can try something else."

After a moment, the doctor nodded. "Five minutes," he agreed. With a nod to the door, he led the nurses out, leaving Jack alone with his charge.

Jack turned back to his charge, to find her staring wide-eyed and wary. He took a step towards her, but froze when she shrank away from him. Instead, he crouched, bringing himself down to her level despite the pain in his knees.

"Samantha," he said softly. "Samantha, do you know who I am?"

Her eyes darted to him for a split second before looking away again. She didn't answer, and in the silence he couldn't help but take in the dark circles under her eyes, and the still-red skin that trailed down from her hairline, reminding him of the wound that lay hidden there.

"Samantha, you're safe. No one here is going to hurt you—"

"No," she whispered, pressing her hand to her temple.

Jack remained patient. "Samantha, do you know who I am?" He'd seen a spark of familiarity, he was sure of it, and when she almost answered him, her brow furrowing as she looked at him again, he knew she did know him. "Do you recognize me?"

She hesitated, but then finally nodded warily. Jack smiled in triumph.

"But you don't remember my name?"

Her head shook no.

"That's okay," he told her. "My name is Jack O'Neill. I'm your friend. You have a head injury that's affected your memory, but I've been here to help you though this. You can trust me."

She finally held his gaze for more than an instant, and strangely enough, it looked like she did trust him.

"You wanna tell me why we're down here?" he asked gently.

"They're trying to kill me," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Jack paused. It wasn't the first time she'd claimed as such. "What makes you say that?"

"They're gonna to kill me and cut my head open," she continued, clenching her eyes shut. "They want my brain, to slice it into pieces. That's all they want. They're gonna kill me—"

"Hey," Jack interrupted, his voice hardening just enough to catch her attention. "Enough of that."

Her rambling ceased, and she looked at him fearfully. But he saw her arm brace her ribs, and knew her injuries were giving her trouble. He had to get her back on the bed before the doc decided to just sedate her anyway.

"Does your chest hurt?" he asked. After a moment, she nodded. "You'd feel better if you got back on the bed. The doc could give you some meds—"

"No!" Her exclamation aggravated her still-healing ribs even more, and she winced at the sudden pain. No doubt it sparked a headache on top of all that too. "No," she repeated, this time a whisper.

"Okay," he said gently, lifting his hands placatingly.

He hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself onto the floor, sitting as close to her as he dared. In the end, he leaned against the side of the hospital bed, relaxing as much as he could in an effort to soothe her.

Blue eyes regarded him warily—not quite distrustful, but neither was she certain he wouldn't try something. He smirked lightly. "We got five minutes," he told her. "That's as much time as I could wrangle from Doogie Howser over there."

The reference was lost on her, apparently. She stared at him blankly.

"You know, you'd think the docs would have their act together by now. We've been here long enough that they should know the drill. It's not like they're the ones with the memory loss or anything."

His rambling was rewarded with an arched brow. Heartened, he continued.

"But this one isn't your usual doctor. Your regular guys really know what they're doing. They're good. Real good. And I don't praise the medical profession often, so that's saying something. As a general rule, I think they're all trigger happy needle pushers, but these guys are top notch. Really."

He kept a close eye on her as he spoke, and was pleased when he saw her relax marginally. It was subtle, and her pain still had her visibly stiff, but he saw an opening, and he took it.

"They have this thing, this oath… They call it a Hippocratic Oath—you heard of it? There's a whole big ceremony involved, but the bottom line is, they promise to do no harm. To their patients, or anyone else." He met her gaze for a long moment. "So, you can trust them, you know."

Samantha's eyes narrowed, glancing towards the door in agitation. She pulled herself farther into her corner, grimacing even as Jack eased off.

"Hey, it's okay, we still got…" He glance at his watch. "Three minutes." Her gaze returned to him, but the tension remained. "And, even if you can't trust them—which is fine, of course. Can't fault you for doing something I've been guilty of, many, many times… But even then, you can—y'know…"

His voice trailed off.

"Trust me."

She froze for a fraction of a heartbeat, and her wide eyes filled with tears. He'd caught her by surprise, and apparently, it was what she'd needed to hear. She didn't melt into his arms—or even move towards him in the slightest—but her features crumpled into a sob as she covered her face with her left hand.

Spontaneous tears weren't exactly unusual at this point, but his heart went out to her anyway—as it always did. But before he could even try to comfort her, her hand brushed against the thick bandage protecting the deep scrape that acted as the only visible evidence of her head trauma. Apparently, she hadn't realized it was there up until then, because a split second later her fingers began tearing at the bandage, scrabbling for purchase against the surgical tape anchoring the gauze.

Tape edged the dressing with careful precision, in anticipation of that very reaction. This wasn't the first time she'd tried to pull off the bandage before, and the tape gave Jack time to grip her by the wrist, gently, but with enough forcefulness to draw her hand away from the still-healing wound.

"Samantha, stop."

Her hand curled into a fist, and her arm pulled against his hold, but she didn't lash out at him. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and tears trailed down her cheeks. Jack hesitated for only a second before carefully wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into a gentle embrace.

She resisted barely an instant before she relaxed, exhaustion and emotion working together to tear down the fragile walls she'd tried to throw up between them. Her hand gripped his shirt tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, leaning into him with what little strength she had left. And he was unable to do anything but hold her.

His hand reflexively stroked her hair, murmuring soothing words he hadn't had reason to use since Charlie grew out of his childhood nightmares. Somehow, it worked—she eventually quieted, leaving her heavy and fatigued in his arms. A furtive glance at his watch told him that he was overdue; hopefully one of the nurses had stepped in to give him more time.

"Samantha…"

And muffled mumble answered him.

"What d'you say we get you back on the bed, huh? My knees aren't what they used to be." Maybe if he turned it back on himself, she'd be more amenable.

"No," she said, pushing weakly against him. "No drugs."

Jack paused, his mind working towards a happy medium. Finally, he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

"Samantha," he said, his voice warm. "If I promise to stay with you, and make sure none of the docs try anything… will you agree to get back on the bed?"

Bloodshot blue eyes looked up at him, weighing his offer carefully. After a long moment, she spoke. "No drugs."

Jack nodded. "No drugs," he agreed. He held out his hand, ready to help her up. But when she only stared at it, he felt a moment of panic. Had she forgotten him already? "Samantha?"

"You didn't promise."

The blunt reminder took him by surprise. But he was glad to hear it, congested and mournful though it was. She was still there. And if all she was waiting for was his word, then she still did trust him.

That was good.

"I promise I won't let them hurt you," he vowed. He smiled reassuringly. "And no drugs until you say so."

This time, when he extended his hand to her, there was only a brief moment of hesitation before she gingerly took it, allowing him to pull himself flush to her side to provide the most support for her. With painstaking care, he got her to his feet, and gently helped her to the bed.

As soon as she lay down she curled up on her side and pressed her arm to her ribs once more. Her eyes closed against the pain, and Jack nodded to the doctor before he sat down next to her. Wordlessly he took her hand and her fingers curled tightly around his.

"It's okay," he whispered, his thumb tracing light circles across the back of her hand, as had become his habit in the preceding weeks. "They just need to reattach some of the monitors, okay?"

She nodded minutely, but her eyes still clenched shut as the doctor's hands reached around her, deftly hooking her back up to the machines. When he finished, Jack motioned for him to leave. Turning back, he saw that her eyes were still closed, and her features were slack.

A rush of alarm flushed through his system and he tried to keep himself calm as he leaned forward. "Samantha?" When she didn't respond, he cupped her cheek gently. "Samantha…"

Her brow furrowed, and a soft murmuring question issued from her lips. A flutter of blue appeared briefly before she started to slip back into sleep.

"Samantha, are you all right?"

Her eyes opened again, her exhaustion immediately evident. "Tired…" she breathed.

Jack sighed in relief. "You can sleep," he told her gently. Sleep was good, he reminded himself.

Her fingers tightened on his. "Please… stay?"

"Absolutely," he assured her. His thumb gently smoothed across her cheek. "I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Deep down, he knew it wouldn't matter if he would be or not. He might be there, but she wouldn't be. Not this Samantha, not the woman who heard him now. She'd be blank again, and she wouldn't know him. He would reintroduce himself, tell her her own name— and maybe she'd trust him, maybe she wouldn't.

But he'd be there, he told himself as she drifted off again. Every step of the way he would be right there with her. He had to be, and not because he'd been ordered to. No, he'd be there for an entirely different reason.

He'd be there because he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning dawned, and this time she woke before he did. She was already looking at him in curiosity—not panic or fear, he was glad to see—by the time he opened his eyes. It wasn't until he started on the rote questionnaire of names, events, and dates that she became distressed, and Jack tossed the list aside after three questions.

Instead he spoke to her with soft words and reassuring touches. He talked about himself, which he'd learned was a safer topic than reminding her of everything she didn't remember about herself. He showed her a picture of Charlie, and her fingers trailed lightly over the lines of his son's face. The delicacy, the reverence of her touch made Jack's throat tighten with emotion, but he let her take her time with wallet-sized photo.

She had no memory of the day before, and while she regarded the doctors and nurses who filtered in with some mild apprehension, she wasn't afraid of them. She didn't even blink twice when they offered her painkillers.

Jack refrained from mentioning that he'd authorized their use after she'd fallen asleep the night before—he hated to go against her wishes, but as always his desire to keep her pain to a minimum had won out. And she'd gotten a full night's sleep as a result, so he knew that he'd made the right decision.

That morning, she remained awake for several hours before she nodded off again. She even began to ask her own questions before she ran out of steam. He answered to the best of his ability without having to delve into the cover story. He was reluctant to start in on the lies. But if she detected the hesitation in his voice, she gave no indication, and when she fell asleep she was peaceful and serene.

That night, he pored over the files Landry had provided him, learning the life that the news outlets had been flooded with in the aftermath of Mission Commander Carter's death. He learned her parents' names, learned where she grew up and when she'd been recruited first by the Air Force and then by NASA. He read some of the papers she'd published in theoretical astrophysics—or, he tried to, at least.

To be honest, it was all gibberish. The equations were mindboggling, and he eventually settled for reading some of the peer reviews included in the report. Every single one was positively glowing, singing the praises of a woman who seemed more and more like a supergenius. One even implied that she was on the verge of rewriting the laws of physics.

The private sector mourned her loss to NASA years before her death.

Her contributions to the space program had been equally mind-blowing. She'd helped to redesign the Intrepid shuttle—of which four were sent up before the one she was on failed—and helped it go farther and faster with less fuel. And once she was up there, in the depths of space, she continued her astrophysics research, making strides that no one else on Earth could make.

The last mission, the one that crashed into the ocean, would have been her third voyage into space.

That was where the facts ended and the lies started. He stared at the false rescue mission report for a few long minutes, before he finally closed the file. Maybe, if he was lucky, she wouldn't ask him about the shuttle crash. And maybe if he focused on the facts of the Mission Commander's real life, he could at least pretend he was giving this unwitting imposter a better life.

Maybe, just maybe, he would come out of this with his soul intact.

The following weeks passed much the same. The stretches between Samantha's mental flushes grew, until the point that they usually only happened when she fell asleep. She still had bad days, and she still remained more disoriented than anyone would like, but the conversations Jack shared with her grew longer and more numerous, a sure sign that she was improving.

He told her about the weather, Charlie's latest college escapades, the news… anything that crossed his mind, anything that took her mind off the fact she was bedridden and without any memories. Whenever he dropped any names of celebrities, or politicians, or anything anyone else might have recognized, her eyes remained blank, but they both took it in stride. For the most part, she simply didn't react to her lack of knowledge of the outside world.

It was the more integral information, the personal memories she didn't have, that bothered her the most and he made a point to leave it out of their conversations. For the most part, the tactic prevented as many episodes as they could hope for. And every episode averted was a victory in Jack's book.

More than once, it occurred to him that their interaction was one-sided—she learned about him every day, but he never got the chance to learn more about her. The only facts she had were the ones he gave her.

But eventually, he started to pick up on the subtler things. Like the look in her eye when she was about to laugh. Or the little crease between her eyebrows when her pain meds needed to be upped and she was too stubborn to say anything. And he couldn't forget her nervous habit of picking at the bandages keeping her right arm braced when she was anxious. And there was one that he soon began to strive for with every chance he got.

He did absolutely everything in his power to get her to smile.

Not the little shy ones she offered when she was trying to pretend to remember him, and not the twisty ones she pasted on when the doctors kept nagging at her.

But the honest-to-god, full-blown, cheek splitting grins that lit up the whole damn room.

He lived for those. It turned into something of a self-imposed challenge, and every day he earned one was a day in which Jack O'Neill didn't fail as a man and her self-proclaimed friend. And if he didn't know better, he'd have sworn that it got easier and easier to coax them from her as time went on, as the conversations got lighter and their friendship strengthened.

One morning, after another rare night of sleep in his own bed, his phone rang as he poured himself a bowl of Frootees. The simple act sparked a furious storm of thoughts within him, eliciting memories of the conversation he'd had about Frootees with Colonel Carter, so the shrill interruption came as a welcome one.

"Yello," he drawled into the phone.

"Colonel O'Neill?" The voice on the other end was inquisitive, but familiar.

"Yeah," Jack returned easily. "Doc? That you?"

"Yes," Doctor Mackenzie answered. "I know you're probably going to be on your way in soon, but there's been a development with Ms. Carter."

Alarm flared in his gut, and Jack stood, shoving his bowl of cereal away. "What kind of development?"

"Well… she's asking for you, sir."

Jack blinked. "What?"

"She's awake, Colonel, and she's asking for Jack. It was the first thing out of her mouth this morning."

Jack didn't say a word before hanging up. Less than an hour later he was sprinting into the hospital, flashing his credentials at the SFs standing guard at the entrance as he blew past them. Luckily they either recognized him on sight, or the doc had thought to call down and tell them to expect him.

Either way, he skidded to a stop outside her room, panting and sweating. He paused only a minute in an effort to get his breath back, but the anticipation had him moving again long before his respiration evened out. He didn't care.

As soon as he stepped into the room, the patient on the bed glanced at him, her features brightening with recognition. He hesitated though, gauging her reaction. She was sitting up, supported by a pile of pillows. She was still bandaged, still braced and protected, but her eyes were clear.

And then her lips pulled into a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Hi, Jack."

The sun might've risen hours ago, but Jack's world brightened at the sound of her voice.

"Good morning, Samantha."


	13. Chapter 13

"Wait, wait, wait…" Jack threw out a hand, motioning for the doctor to backtrack. "What exactly are you telling me here, doc?"

MacKenzie sighed, settling back in his chair as he regarded Jack with an even keel. "I believe that Samantha is ready to be released from the facility. She has been for several weeks now, but she demonstrated a reluctance to discuss this with you."

"Why the hell would she do that?"

"Because her release is contingent on her residing with another individual; someone who can help her get around, and be there in case her memory loss relapses."

Jack bowed his head with a groan. They'd made tremendous strides as far as the memory went—their record was fifteen days without a mental flush—but just the idea of her being alone in a house or apartment after a mental flush, confused and with no recollection, made his gut churn.

He straightened a moment later. "But she knows I'll stay with her—"

"That's the problem, Colonel," the doctor returned easily. "I believe her reluctance to inform you was out of her desire to not impose on you any more than she already has. And out of respect for that I have kept my silence until now, but I feel that allowing her to stay here will only hinder any further recuperation."

"Really?"

MacKenzie nodded. "Yes. At this point, this hospital has been her only environment. She needs to acclimate to the outdoors, to socialize if possible, and most importantly, she needs to start functioning in her own environment. That will be the only way for her to regain any more of her lost mobility."

Jack sighed. It made sense. She was able to walk adequately well now, with the aid of only a single arm crutch. Well, it should really be two arm crutches, but her right shoulder was still too weak to be of any use. After two additional surgeries to try and repair the damage to the torn joint, the prognosis was no longer hopeful. In fact, it was only through sheer force of will on her part that she wasn't still in a wheelchair.

But socializing? God, that was the absolute last thing she needed.

He shook it from his mind. They'd jump off that bridge when they came to it.

"And I believe that if she receives more stimuli from her surroundings, she may even regain more of her memory," Mackenzie finished.

"Really?" Jack perked up at that. "But you said that anything from before the accident was as good as lost."

"One can never be sure when it comes to memory, Colonel O'Neill. She may never regain those memories, it's true, and you shouldn't put any pressure on her to do so, but my point is that being out in a world that's more familiar than this hospital would only be good for her."

Jack sucked in a breath. "Right. Of course. Good." He nodded, with a heavy finality. "I'll talk to her."

He stood and made to leave, eager to return to the woman in question, only to be called back to the doctor's desk by a stern warning.

"Please don't dismiss her concerns, Colonel. This reluctance may not make much sense to you, but it is her first effort to become independent. If you fail give it the consideration it deserves, she could lose both the trust she has in both herself and in you."

The doctor's words fell heavily over him, but Jack listened. In the end, he nodded. "I'll make some calls," he stated firmly. "Thanks, doc."

His phone was out of his pocket and already dialing by the time the door clicked shut behind him.

Half an hour later, he was sitting next to her on a bench in the garden, watching her try to avoid his gaze. She hadn't made any effort to deny what Mackenzie told him, but the pointedness of his question had made her uncomfortable. He could tell by the way she was picking at the edge of her sling—it was what she'd moved on to when the bandages had eventually been removed.

"I just don't get it, Samantha," he told her softly. "I haven't made you feel like a burden, have I? Because that's not—"

Her head swung from side to side as quickly as she dared; migraines were still a considerable danger, but she'd learned the tricks to avoiding them.

"No! No, of course not, Jack. But—that's just it. You've been so selfless…" She swallowed thickly. "I know you've said we're friends, Jack, but you've done too much as it is. You have your own life, your own family, and I've kept you from that." Blue eyes met his, dark with regret. "I can't ask you to share your home with me too, on top of everything else. I just can't."

"Well, then it's a good thing you don't have to."

He watched her head tilt back with a groan of frustration. "Jack, please, that's not the point here, and you know it. Of course you'd offer without me asking. That's why I asked Dr. Mackenzie to keep his recommendations to himself—"

Her protests quieted when his hand settled on her good knee. "Yeah, I would offer," he told her carefully. "But I don't have to."

Her gaze sharpened on him in a split second, making his spine straighten reflexively. Damn. He was still getting used to that hard-edged stare.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her tone careful, clipped.

Jack shrugged. "I just got off the phone with the Air Force. They'd heard about our little predicament, and they agreed that you deserve your own space. They'll have a place furnished and ready for you to move in by noon tomorrow."

He watched her blink, visibly stunned. Or confused. Or both.

"My own space?" Her head shook minutely. "I don't understand…"

"Well," he amended lightly, "I'll still be hanging around a lot. And by a lot, I mean all the time, but you know, we can make it work. I'll take the couch, you take the big old comfy bed upstairs, it'll be fun—"

"Jack, please," she cut in. "You're making my head hurt."

He grimaced slightly, kicking himself. "Look… You're getting out of this hospital no matter what. I would gladly let you stay at my place, but that's not what you need or want right now. With your own place, you'll be able to start building your own life, but the fact is you still need some help. You'd be doing me a favor by letting me be the person to stay with you. It'd save me a boatload in gas money, driving between my place and yours."

He'd tried to make the last part a joke, but the effort fell flat. She didn't smile.

"Think of it this way… friends let friends crash on each other's couches." He shot her a grin. "So, what d'you say?"

She didn't respond for several long moments. The tension built, but he bit his tongue against the urge to fill the silence with mindless chatter. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the afternoon for her, and it would suck for this growing headache to lead up to another mental flush. He did not want to have to explain this a second time.

Finally, she pulled in a deep breath, and turned her attention back to him once more. "Why would the Air Force want to do something like that?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Jack, please—"

"All right, okay… sorry. They owe me one." He could have just said that NASA was footing the bill, but he had yet to broach the subject of the space agency. The pressure from on high to start grooming her into their press-ready astronaut was growing by the day, but he just couldn't bring himself to introduce that part of her new life to her.

He doubted she bought the lame explanation, but she seemed to sense his discomfort, because she didn't push it. But still, she still didn't answer him either. She stared at her lap, her jaw tense with uncertainty.

His hand tightened on her knee, pulling her back out of her thoughts. "Okay?"

Finally, she nodded. "Okay." Her hand came down and settled over his. Her touch was warm, and Jack didn't even try to pretend it sent sparks down his spine. "Thank you."

"Ah, don't thank me yet," he returned wryly. "You might end up regretting having me around all the time."

Her head tilted while her brow arched. "I haven't yet."

"Oh, well, you know that's because you haven't seen me as a house guest," he confided. "I'm horrible with coasters. That was always Sara's biggest pet peeve. Well, that and the socks. Used to leave the damn things all over the place…"

That earned him a small giggle, and he relaxed at the sound of it. They'd be okay. She'd be okay. She still wasn't totally thrilled—probably because she saw the house as simply more charity—but if she was able to laugh about it, then odds were she'd warm up to the idea, given enough time. And he was certain she'd feel better about it once she actually got out of the hospital and got a taste of the outside world.

"Oh, and I told them to stock up on Frootees," he added. When a puzzled expression looked back at him, he waved off her confusion. "Breakfast cereal. Delicious. You'll love 'em."

Maybe. Colonel Carter had said she hated them, but who knew? Maybe Samantha would like them. If anything, they'd be a conversation starter if she had a mental flush at the new place. At the moment, she clearly wasn't convinced.

Her momentary mirth faded at the mention of her lacking memory, and her lips pressed together into a worried line. And the little crease between her eyes was deepening. Damn. She really was coming on with a headache.

"Hey." He cut into her musings with a firm voice. "I can hear the wheels turning in that head of yours. So, stop it. You're giving me a headache."

This time, her smile was broader. "Right. Sorry." Her fingers brushed lightly against her forehead, as though to sweep her bangs from her eyes. But Jack knew better. She did it every time a headache started to really kick in—as though she wanted to rub the pain away, but thought better of it at the last minute. She never complained, and hated it when someone called her out on it.

"What d'you say we head back inside, huh?" he suggested casually. The bright sunlight cascading down on them could only be making things worse. She usually didn't stay out this late into the afternoon.

But she shook her head. "It's too nice out today to spend it cooped up inside. I was feeling anxious earlier, but out here it's easier to sit still…"

It was a great day, Jack had to admit. The recent rain had brought out the brightest blooms of the season, and the air was textured with their mingling fragrances. But as beautiful as it was, the sun would ruin the entire rest of her day with a killer migraine. Especially now that it'd become clear that usual pain medication no longer worked.

The doctors weren't certain why, but the more she'd recovered, the less she'd responded to the usual pain medication and sedatives. They thought it might be due to the unknown mineral in her blood, but they couldn't be sure. And the only meds that seemed to help always cued a mental flush.

He sighed, racking his brain for a solution. Finally, it clicked. "Here," he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out his sunglasses. They were his trusty shades, the same ones that had been with him on his last flight. They'd been with him for a long time, and so far only Charlie had been the only one to wear them besides himself. But there was no hesitation in his movements as he reached over and gently deposited them on her nose.

They drooped briefly, but she seated them properly herself. The wraparounds completely shielded her eyes from both the sun and his view, and he smiled at the sight she presented.

Oh, yeah. She was so a pilot. If he'd ever had any doubts before, they were gone now, seeing her shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly and her chin lift as she modeled the frames for him.

"Looking good," he remarked.

"Thank yuh, thank yuh very much," she drawled back, affecting an accent that was decidedly masculine. Jack didn't recognize it, and it struck him as odd. Where would she have picked up something like that? Maybe one of the nurses had been loaning her the radio again. He'd have to keep his ears peeled.

Either way, the grin she gave him made him think better of asking her about it. "What do you say we have a picnic for lunch today?" he asked. "To celebrate your last day in the hospital?"

Her grin instantly broadened. "That sounds great. I'll walk with you…"

"Ah," he cut her off quickly. "Appreciated, but not necessary." The trip would only wear her out, and it wasn't like she could help him carry anything, with one arm in a sling and the other in a crutch. "Stay here and make sure no one takes our bench."

He trotted off before she could protest, and in less than ten minutes he was back. She'd progressed to the point that she could have food from the guest cafeteria on occasion. Too much of it still made her sick, but at least she no longer had to rely on an IV to get the nutrients she needed. And today he'd splurged on what would probably have the doctors tutting in disapproval—namely, the good stuff.

Cake, pie, roast beef sandwiches, and Jell-o. A veritable buffet, really, and when he returned to the garden, Samantha took one look at him before busting out into a round of laughter.

"Nice," she delivered between peals of laughter. "Did you leave anything for anyone else?"

"Nope!" he chirped happily. He gave her one tray and then pulled over an empty table to their bench. Together they settled in behind it, and tucked in with gusto. The sandwiches disappeared quickly, but they took their time with dessert, chatting amiably as they sampled each selection.

"Oh man, the cake is rockin' today!" Jack exclaimed gleefully. "How's the pie?"

Samantha shrugged. "You'll like it." Her gaze tracked to his tray, and a moment later she was reaching for it. "You gonna eat your Jell-o?"

He crossed spoons with hers as she reached across, smacking it away with practiced efficiency. "What's wrong with yours?"

"It's red."

"What?" Jack glanced at her cup, and sure enough, it was red. He looked to his. It was blue. "What's wrong with red?"

She shrugged again. "It tastes weird." Jack paused, then relinquished his dish without protest.

"Sure. Knock yourself out." He rolled his eyes when she arched a brow at him. "Not literally… Jeez, you've got enough brain damage as it is." A chuckle answered him, muffled by a mouthful of blue gelatin. But he watched as she chewed, her features lighting up at the taste. "Any good?"

"Mmmmm…"

"Yeah, thought so. Note to self—blue Jell-o's a hit." He shoveled a mouthful of cake into his mouth. "Cake's better."

Samantha retorted something that devolved into a hmph, but Jack only shot her a grin. The crease between her brows was gone, and he could see the smile in her eyes even through the shaded lenses of his sunglasses.

But even as he looked at her, he couldn't help but feel the tendril of apprehension coiling in his gut. This time tomorrow they would be settling into a new place. Here he'd had it easy—he didn't have to share her with anyone, compete for her attention… They'd struck up a strong friendship, but somehow he doubted it would remain so easygoing when they left this controlled environment of theirs.

And of course, he couldn't forget the knowledge that the minute she left the hospital she would become a target. The second she set foot outside those pneumatic doors, the countdown started.

It would only be a matter of time before she was recognized.

And God help him then.


	14. Chapter 14

"Come on, Jack… I can walk, you know."

"It's procedure, Samantha."

Almost there, Jack thought to himself. Just a few more yards and then they'd be outside this damn hospital and then they'd get in the car. And then maybe she'd stop being so damned ornery.

"What, do they think I'll fall and injure myself on my way out?"

Jack couldn't help but crack a grin at the thought of the karma she must've ruined in a past life for that to happen. "You have to admit it's a possibility."

"I think if something like that was going to happen, it would have already," she countered.

"Two more seconds, Samantha, and then it's so-long wheel chair, adios hospital, and aloha freedom," Jack returned lightly. "I think you can suck it up until then."

"Easy for you to say," came the retaliatory grumble. "You're not the one being pushed around like an invalid."

"And here we are," Jack sing-songed, finally crossing the threshold out into the bright sunlight of the outdoors. His truck was already waiting for them, and he knew that Samantha's small bag of belongings—whatever books, trinkets and magazines had been donated to her by the hospital staff over the past several months—was already stowed on the backseat.

He nodded to the orderly who'd been suffering Samantha's stubborn tirade with grace, receiving a gracious smile in return.

"You have your doctor's orders, Ms. Carter," the younger man told his anxious, now-former patient. "Take it easy, and don't overdo it. We don't want to see you back here until your scheduled follow-up, all right?"

Jack watched as Samantha turned to glower at the orderly, but despite her best efforts, she couldn't hold it. It was a losing battle as her features quickly melted into the easy smile the staff had come to love.

"Thanks, Trevor," she told him, her previous antagonizing tone softened into honest, warm gratitude. "I will."

"Yeah, you say that now," Jack chimed in, earning himself a half-glare. He ignored it in favor of winking to the Hispanic man. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on her."

"Some friend," came the grumbled accusation, but it was half-hearted. "Can we leave now?"

"Absolutely. Your chariot awaits, milady." Without giving her time to protest, Jack scooped her out of the wheelchair and gently deposited her on the passenger seat. It was quick and seamless, and all she had the chance to do was glare at him as he shut the door.

With one last farewell to Trevor, Jack took up his seat behind the wheel and pulled away from the hospital's front doors. Two checkpoints through security, and then they were home free, the familiar hulk of the hospital gradually shrinking in rearview mirror until it was hidden from view entirely.

They drove along in silence, and Jack refrained from turning on the radio. The only sound was the familiar rumble of the engine as it carried them down the freeway. He kept an eye on his passenger, watching her react. At first, she was fidgety, continuously craning her neck to look at the scenery, to take in as much as she possibly could. But when the view stretched out into a line of trees, trees, and more trees, she settled, falling still in the seat.

She fell so still, in fact, he thought she might've fallen asleep. It was impossible for him to tell for sure through the dark lenses of her sunglasses—the ones he had yet to retrieve from her—but the slight tension that still lined her long frame made him think she was only deep in thought.

It wasn't the first time she'd fallen into her own thoughts, and he knew she would most likely stay there until he pulled her out of it. But for now, he let her be. He didn't really have anything important to say anyway.

But as he continued to glance over at her, he watched her grow increasingly anxious. It started with some slight fidgeting, nothing to worry about. But when it became clear that her agitation was merely increasing as time went on, he couldn't remain silent. When she fell suddenly, utterly still, his concern flared into near panic.

"Samantha?"

"Pull over," she bit out, her voice a choked gasp.

"What?"

"Pull over!" Panic now. Jack immediately swerved off the side of the road. Samantha yanked her door open before the truck fully stopped, leaving her crutch behind in her frantic scramble to exit the cab. She made it barely three steps before her bad leg gave out, and she fell heavily to her knees.

"Samantha!" Jack darted from his side of the truck, sprinting around the front to find her heaving her breakfast up onto the hard-packed turf. He was at her side in an instant, gently pulling her long hair away from her face. But there was nothing more he could do for her but patiently wait as she heaved.

It wasn't the first time he'd filled this role, and he knew it wouldn't be the last… But this was different. She was shaking, trembling, even as her stomach calmed. When it became clear she was finished, he wordlessly handed her a tissue.

"Thanks," she croaked, her voice rough from the abuse. She took the tissue and shakily wiped her lips.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently. "You weren't feeling that bad at the hospital, were you?"

"No," she affirmed. "I don't know what happened… I just got this really bad feeling, like I couldn't breathe—and then I just… I don't know." She coughed and spat in front of her, pressing a hand to her hand pressed against her chest. "God, my heart's still pounding."

Jack bit back a curse. He should have anticipated this. A car ride had been what had put her in the hospital in the first place. She didn't know that, but he did. And he should have known better.

He murmured something about getting a bottle of water for her, and then quickly moved to the truck, giving himself space to rein in his self-reproach. As he pawed through the backseat looking for the unopened bottle he was sure was there, he mentally kicked himself.

He'd been so worried about what kind of havoc she'd wreak on the world, he hadn't even stopped to consider what the world might do to her.

Even without her memories, it was clear there were some things her body still remembered.

Finally finding the plastic bottle of water he returned to where she knelt, offering it to her with a soft hand to her back, rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades. She swished her mouth out and then took a long swig of the water before leaning back into his touch.

"You wanna hang out here for a while?" he asked her, but she was already shaking her head.

"No," she returned firmly. "I'm fine, really."

"You sure?" He knew better, even if she didn't. But he would go by her lead, in the end.

"Maybe… maybe if we keep the windows down?"

Jack nodded in agreement. It was a good plan. The cross-breeze might be enough to keep her grounded and reduce the cramped feeling of the small cab. He carefully got her to her feet, and let her lean on him as she limped back to the truck.

As she settled back into the passenger seat he rolled the window down for her, so she wouldn't have to worry about reaching over with her good arm to do it herself. Moments later he was behind the wheel and unrolling his own window, before starting the engine once more and pulling back onto the sleepy road.

In no time they were chugging along at a good pace, and the breeze seemed to be working. His frequent glances towards Samantha showed him a woman still apprehensive, but definitely more at ease than she'd been before.

"Doing okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. I don't know what came over me before. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. A lot of people get carsick. And considering you haven't been in a car for months, well…"

He didn't finish the thought, and she didn't see the need to fill in the blank herself. She simply turned her head and looked out the window, letting the wind wash over her and blow her hair every which way. Jack watched her for a moment before turning his attention back to the road. For a long few minutes, neither of them said anything.

Then, finally—"Jack?"

"Yeah?" He kept his eyes on the road, sensing that her own gaze was still aimed towards the window.

She took a moment before answering. "Are we—? Were we friends? Before I lost my memory?"

For a long moment, Jack's only reaction was to tighten his grip on the steering wheel. He took several deep breaths, bringing his nerves back under steely control. "Yeah," he answered finally.

"So… you know what happened? How I ended up in the hospital?"

Again, he nodded. "Yeah, I do." He finally shot her a look. "Do you want to know, or—?"

"No." Her voice was firm. "No, I think—it's something I need to remember for myself. And if I don't…" She shrugged. "If I don't, then maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I shouldn't remember."

Jack felt himself relax, and wasn't even sure why. "Okay."

He could only hope she didn't hear his relief at being let off the hook.

Even if she did, she didn't answer him. He didn't press any further.

The rest of the trip was made in silence, and when they finally pulled up to their destination it was without fanfare. He turned off the engine and waited as Samantha took a look at the house from the window.

"You been inside yet?" she asked, her voice soft.

Jack craned his neck, trying to get a look himself. "Nope. Not yet."

She pulled in a deep, fortifying breath, then pushed her door open. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Jack followed her around to the other side of the truck, and together they stood in front the house. It was a plain house, with a brick overhanging porch and a brick face. Bigger than they needed for the two of them, but not so big that it seemed out of place in the neighborhood. But Jack knew it had been chosen for the yard more than for the house itself.

The yard was wide on either side, and extended enough in the front that Samantha would probably be able to sit on the front porch without getting stares. And to Jack's trained eye, he could see that the whole place could be easily managed should a security risk make itself known. It could be locked down with a minimum of manpower, if it was done right.

It struck the perfect balance on all fronts, and he could only hope that she liked it for its aesthetic value. It really was rather quaint—much more idyllic than his own brownstone in the city.

She was the one to lead the way into the house, as though sensing it was her prerogative. And it was. Jack remained steadfast on the fact that the place was hers, and she should be the first one to cross the threshold. She already had the key, and she unlocked the door with only minimal fumbling as she tried to juggle the key and the crutch without tipping over.

Then, the door was open, and they moved inside together. Jack cast a look around, nodding to himself in approval. Strategically placed windows allowed for a great deal of natural light to spill into the house without being overly exposed, and the interior was open and uncluttered by walls. The bottom floor was a single room, partitioned from the kitchen by a single half-wall that doubled as marble counter space. A staircase off to the right led upstairs, made of the same hardwood that was the foundation of the rest of the place.

"What do you think?" he asked, finally.

Samantha took her time answering, as he knew she would. The woman thought too much for her own damn good sometimes.

"It's nice," she delivered finally.

Jack sighed. That long to answer and the best she can come up with is nice. Figured.

"Nice is good," he quipped, moving towards the kitchen. He glanced quickly through the cupboards, and grinned at the sight of the Frootees he requested. When he spied the box of pasta and jarred marinara, his stomach growled. "You want something to eat?"

An answering grunt trailed in from the living room.

"How does spaghetti for lunch sound?" He could make enough for dinner too. Or for tomorrow. It'd be easy enough to re-heat, right? When he got a mumbled fine in return, he didn't take it to heart. He waited until he heard her settle herself onto the couch before banging around the pots and pans.

When he had the water on to boil, he stuck his head over the half wall to check on her. All he could see was the top of her head against the cushions, but she seemed peaceful enough that he turned his attention back to cooking without bothering her again.

He didn't venture out of the kitchen until the noodles were ready to serve and the sauce was simmering on the back burner, at which point his suspicions were confirmed. Samantha was sitting sideways against the back cushions, her bad leg propped up along the length of the couch. With her arms crossed over middle, she was dead asleep, her chin resting against her chest at an awkward angle.

He didn't want to wake her up. God, he really didn't want to. But if he didn't, the food would get cold, she'd be hungry when she did wake up, and if she didn't eat, her energy level would be absolute zilch. They'd both be hurting then.

Jack crouched next to the couch, ignoring the cracking of his knees. Once there, he hesitated, staring.

She really was beautiful.

Watching her sleep was distinctly different from when he'd sat next to her while she was comatose. Her features settled differently, more naturally. It was peaceful to look at her, to notice the improvement she'd made compared to those nightmarish weeks.

Reaching up with careful movements, Jack brushed a hank of hair from her brow, exposing the pink scar tissue hiding beneath. The skin was pitted and uneven, and even he could see the slight concavity that belied the beating her skull had taken. The scar was ugly, but beautiful at the same time.

She'd survived. Somehow, she'd pulled through, and even now she was still making progress. The doctors might not have been surprised, or awed, but he was. He couldn't not be.

"Samantha…" His voice was soft, and he trailed a gentle hand down her arm. She stirred, but didn't wake. "Samantha, it's time to wake up."

A wordless mumbled trailed from, the pitch questioning even as she worked her way to consciousness. His hand moved to hers, clasping it tenderly.

"Sama—"

He was cut off when she issued a sharp gasp as she woke with a start. Her whole body spasmed as she instinctively tried to bolt upright, but the answering pain had her leaning back with a groan. Her left hand moved to her shoulder, and Jack knew she must have wrenched it.

"Hey, take it easy…" he soothed gently. He went to touch her, but froze when she tensed. Crap. "Samantha? Do you know—"

"Jack." The pained acknowledgement doused him in a wave of relief. "It's okay."

She wasn't okay, if her strained voice was any indication. But he got the message, loud and clear. She was all still there. No mental flush.

"All right," he returned. "I made some food. You should be able to handle pasta okay…" He looked up to find her eyes closed. The tension he read around her eyes told him all he needed to know. "Why don't I bring it out here?"

"No." Her voice was hard, but she was moving through the pain, already shifting to wing her legs around. "We'll eat at the table."

"Let me at least get you some meds—" But she was already getting her crutch under her, and pushing herself to her feet. "… Or not," he finished lamely.

He trailed behind her as she wordlessly moved towards the table. As they moved, Jack noticed for the first time the long shadows that spread across the room. The sun was setting, and had hidden behind the tall tree shaded the backyard.

His hand instinctively flipped the switch on the wall, and didn't even realize he'd done it until the lights flashed on and Samantha dropped like a rock.

"Samantha!" Jack caught her at the last moment before she hit the hardwood, and was so off-balance they almost both went down. But he managed to settle them on floor, cradling her as best he could.

She wasn't unconscious, but her eyes were clenched shut and her hand pressed against the side of her head with enough force to turn her fingers white.

Migraine. Shit.

The light.

"Keep your eyes closed," he murmured in her ear, not waiting for a reply before he darted to the switch plate and flipped the offending overhead blub off. The next instant he was back at her side, trying to get through to her. "Samantha, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please, look at me…"

Blue eyes flashed open for just a second, but they clenched shut just as quickly.

"Oh, god…" Her moan bespoke her agony more clearly than the words. Tears were already coursing down her cheeks, shining in the lower light that wasn't low enough.

Jack swallowed thickly. "I'll get your meds. Wait here," he instructed, even though he knew she wasn't in any shape to move. He pawed through the bag on the counter with reckless abandon, looking for the little orange bottle that would take her pain away.

When he finally put the small white pill in her hand, she dry swallowed it without opening her eyes. Then she curled into herself, shrinking away from the sunlight that still peeked in through the westward windows. Jack maneuvered himself between them and her, blocking the innocuous shafts of light.

But when he wrapped his arms around her she sank against him. Still stiff, almost shaking in agony, but she wasn't blaming him for turning on the light. At least, not yet. But she could resent him later, so long as she let him care for her now. The few times she'd refused his care had been absolute hell. For both of them.

Eventually, she relaxed as the pain killers kicked in, and when her hand dropped to her lap, he knew she was on the verge of falling asleep. He rubbed his hand against her back in smooth circles, ducking his head to speak low in her ear.

"There's a bedroom down the hall," he told her gently. "Low light, no stairs…"

It took a long moment, but eventually she managed to issue a grunt of acknowledgement. With painstaking care he got them both to their feet. The crutch was left abandoned on the floor, Jack supporting her weight entirely. She did her best to stay on her feet, but more than once her knees gave out on the slow walk to the back bedroom. He only counted himself lucky that he managed to get the pain killers in her before she'd gotten nauseous.

He helped her onto the bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. She laid out right on top of them, curling into as tight a ball as she could manage. Her hand covered her eyes, even as Jack pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her.

Jack crouched next to her head, gently stroked her hair. "Better?"

A thick, rattling sniff answered him. Her fingers swiped at her eyes, smearing tears across the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thin and shaky.

"Don't apologize," he countered swiftly. "Not ever. Not for this."

"The pasta—"

"Will keep," he finished for her, refusing to be swayed. "This is why I'm here, remember? So don't apologize."

Her lips almost smiled. He counted it as a win. When her lids started to droop, he offered a reassuring smile.

"Get some sleep," he urged. "You've earned it."

It had been a long day for both of them. Between the arduous paperwork of getting her discharged, the shock of the ride and the new house, and everything in between, he was ready to hit the sack himself. He wouldn't though. Not for a while. Not until he was sure that she was able to rest undisturbed.

He didn't want to think about what tomorrow might bring. Every migraine brought with it the chance that the next time she opened her eyes she'll have forgotten everything again. He'd hoped she'd get more of a chance to get familiar with the house before the next mental flush hit, that she'd put her own personal touch on it to make it more comfortable for her even when she woke up in an unknown location.

But he would stay close, just in case.

When her eyes finally closed, and her breathing evened out, Jack made his move to leave the room. He would stay close, at least until he could get some sort of sound monitor installed in case she panicked in the middle of the night. But for now, he could at least get the pasta and sauce stored.

"Jack?"

He paused in the doorway at the sound of his name, thick and sleep-heavy on her lips.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything."

Jesus. On the verge of sleep she was at her most vulnerable, he knew. Her guards were down and often her mental filter diminished to near insignificant levels. Sometimes it meant he caught the worst of her temper. Other times, though…

Other times, he got this. Words that damn near melted his heart, no matter how much he knew he didn't deserve the gratitude. And just like every other time she thanked him, he responded the only way he knew how.

"Always."


	15. Chapter 15

"Don't. Touch. Me."

"Samantha, just give me a chance to explain."

"No! I'm leaving."

Jack bit back a sigh. This flush had come at the worst possible time. She had a check-up at the hospital in an hour, and he was making absolutely no headway. If he didn't get through to her soon, he would have to reschedule, and even though the doctors would understand, he would much rather get it over with now.

But he knew what would happen if he tried to force her before she was ready. He'd already made that mistake, and it hadn't ended well. It had taken days for her to trust him again after that one.

"And where will you go?" he asked smoothly. She didn't answer. But at the same time, she didn't stop moving. She limped past him, her overnight bag slung across her shoulder.

She could walk without the crutch for the most part now, and even the sling was only used on the worst of days. Usually she just tucked her hand into her pocket and went about her day like that. Today though, her bad arm hung like a dead weight, after a morning of furious gesticulation and even a forceful push to remind him to keep his distance. She'd be hurting tomorrow.

"I'm your friend, Samantha, you can trust me—"

"I don't even know you," she delivered sharply.

"Take a look at the key table on your way out then." Jack shrugged. He wasn't her warden, and the house wasn't a prison. She could leave if she wanted to.

That's not to say he wouldn't follow her at a discreet distance, though. Because what kind of friend would he be if he just left her to get lost?

For now he simply hung back as she stormed to the door. Her limp was getting worse as she kept up her furious pace, and he counted it a victory when she paused at the table he'd specified. Well, not the table so much, but rather the framed photo sitting on top of it.

He'd wisened up in the weeks since moving in. They'd decorated together, but it was the pictures that dotted the house that made the most difference. Some of them were just of Samantha by herself, taken in various rooms around the house. But more of them were pictures of them both. She'd been resistant to the photos at first, but when he'd explained why, she'd acquiesced. And she'd even gotten into it herself, snapping a photo of him from time to time to add to their collection.

The picture on the key table was one of the ones that featured them both—it was his favorite. In it they were on the porch, sitting on the swinging loveseat. One of his arms was hooked around her neck, the other stretched out to snap the picture as they both grinned broadly up at the camera. She was leaning heavily into him, just because she could. And her smile- it was one of the full-blown, knock-your-socks-off grins that made his heart stop.

An as if to top off the entire scene, for once she'd been able to sit outside without her sunglasses on, despite the sunny day around them.

As a result, the happiness in her eyes was clearly visible and utterly captivating. The photo showed her perfectly at ease, and that obvious level of comfort was what gave Samantha pause now. Jack watched as she picked up the frame to peer closely at the two happy figures it boasted. Blue eyes glanced at him before darting back to the photo, as though verifying his likeness.

But he saw her features soften, ever so slowly, and the tension eased just enough to take the edge off- just enough until she wasn't vibrating in place anymore. Her fingers trailed lightly over the glass face of the frame, before she finally returned it to its home on the small table. She turned to face him, her left hand tugging nervously at the hem of her shirt.

"So…" she started, hesitantly. "You and me, we're…?"

"Friends," he answered. "Good friends. I help out around the house in exchange for three hots and a cot. After all, friends are the flowers in the garden of life, and all that." She blinked at him, her nose wrinkling slightly as her brow furrowed. He paused. "What?"

"Why did you say that?"

"Say what?"

"Friends and gardens and all that... Why did you say that?"

Jack shrugged. "I dunno. It's a cliche. Everyone says it." He eyed her. "Why wouldn't I say that?"

Samantha looked away, shifting her gaze to the side. "It doesn't… sound right. It doesn't fit."

"It doesn't fit… what?"

"The rest of you." Her voice was hedgy, wary.

She'd been like this a couple times before. It usually wasn't long before she had another mental flush, but for the duration she wouldn't completely trust him. But just like when she babbled nonsense, or called him a fifth, it was his job to make sure she didn't abandon him completely. She wasn't cutting herself off completely, not yet, but at the same time the walls would remain until she lost her memory once more, and they could start over from the ground up.

"Uh, okay, well, I gotta make a quick phone call," he said finally, deftly changing the subject. He needed to call the hospital. They wouldn't be coming in today. "Promise you won't run off while I go into the next room?"

A brow arched in his direction, but she took a step deeper into the room, so he accepted that as a yes. The house was eerily silent as he went to find the phone. They had a TV they used for movies, but it had no live broadcast. And while something about the house kept them from getting anything but static on the radio, Samantha had taken to playing his CDs in the background as she went about her day. Hearing the absence of ambient sound was disconcerting.

And on top of everything else, jack knew that getting her to stick around might have just been the easy part. Now he just had to figure out how to keep her calm until the next mental flush hit, and they could start over on the right foot. As he dialed the familiar number of Dr. Mackenzie, Jack ran through his usual checklist of possible solutions. Unfortunately, he didn't think any of the usuals would work this time. She'd come closer to leaving today than she ever had before, and he was all too aware that one wrong move could send her packing for good.

Off-handedly, perhaps, he wondered if she'd ever watched the Simpsons before.

It turned out she hadn't.

She agreed to watch a few episodes with him anyway. Well, at least he took her stony silence as agreement. He put in a disc and started watching, and when she didn't immediately leave in disgust, he took it as a good sign.

Throughout the first episode she sat on the far end of the couch from his seat in the easy chair, her arms crossed over her chest just oozing antagonism. The second, she'd softened up a little bit, though the humor still didn't crack through the hardened shell of apathy she shrouded herself in. She still watched him more than she watched the show, visibly wary of him, but he didn't mind.

By the time the pizza came though, even she was cracking a smile for Bart.

When they finished the pizza, she was chuckling at fart jokes and many a d'oh as the intended couple of episodes turned into a marathon. They watched until the sun set and then some, until she was curled up and dozing on the couch.

Jack let the episodes run until the disc ran out before getting up to find her a blanket. They'd learned early on that the house got drafty at night, but he didn't mind it so much. He wouldn't deny that he liked sometimes having to share the only blanket in reach when both of them were too lazy to go get a second. In those instances, her head rested on his shoulder and he could smell the fragrance of her shampoo.

And when her arm curled through his, he could pretend that it wasn't just to share body heat.

Tonight he kept his distance, sinking back into the easy chair after the blanket settled over her. He flipped open the footrest and settled back, ready to be stiff and sore when morning came. When she woke up the next morning, if she still remembered, the left-on TV screen would let her know that he'd fallen asleep as she had—and not that he'd opted to just let her sleep instead of trying to move her into the bedroom.

And whether she remembered or not, chances were she wouldn't panic when she saw his sorry ass snoring away. It was when he was at his least threatening, after all.

Tucking a throw pillow under his head he kicked his feet up and relaxed. It was going to be either real long night, or a real short one.

Either way, tomorrow was bound to be another adventure altogether.


	16. Chapter 16

The leaves were just beginning to turn. It was beautiful.

But even more beautiful was the look on Samantha's face as she took in all of the colors adorning the trees. Reds, oranges, and deep golden yellows… The Air Force had picked a good street for autumn.

And it was a quiet neighborhood too—most of their neighbors, it turned out, were retirees who'd already made the move down to Florida for the season. It was because of that fact alone that Jack was actually enjoying the scenic walk, when under any other circumstances he might be beside himself with anticipation at the thought of Samantha being out and about.

It was good for her, yes. The fresh air did wonders; he'd be nuts not to see it. And she needed the exercise more than anything. She was still limping, even without the crutch, and the chill in the air had her arm back in its sling to cut back on the pain. But moving kept her muscles from getting tight, and she was in a great mood.

"How're you doing?" he asked, ever mindful that they could easily cross the line from 'doing good' to 'over-doing'.

But her good mood reared its ugly head in the form of a pinch delivered to the fleshy underside of his arm.

"Stop asking me," she chided with a mock growl. "Look at the leaves. They're more interesting than I am."

Jack grinned. "Yeah, but the leaves aren't the ones who're going to bail on their dinner-making duties when they get too cold."

"I'm not making dinner. You cheated. The bet is null and void."

"I did not cheat."

She snorted. "Did."

"Didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't—"

"Think of it this way," she cut in smoothly. "Would you really want to eat something I made under duress? Or would you be too worried wondering what I might have put into it as payback?"

Jack scoffed, unconcerned. But then he caught a look at the dangerously arched brow and the decidedly evil grin curling her lips.

He cleared his throat with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

"How does pizza sound?"

Samantha smirked, turning her attention back to the view ahead of them as they continued to walk. "I was thinking Thai."

"Just what I was thinking too. Perfect. Thai it is."

She giggled.

She'd been doing that a lot lately. Granted, he'd been a little goofier than necessary, but who could blame him? And so she got her way a little more often than his pride would usually stand for, but he couldn't help himself.

And honestly, her cooking wasn't very good anyway, so this was a battle he didn't really want to win in the first place.

"Hey, didn't you say there was a lake around here?"

So far they'd only done circuits around their cul-de-sac, and he was surprised to hear her mention the lake. He'd always figured she liked the reassurance of having the house nearby, in case something happened. She was always aware of her own shortcomings, though her mentality tended to drift towards the end of not wanting to burden him rather than minding her own needs.

In her mind, the less distance he might have to carry her back to the house, the better.

"It's more like a reservoir, really. But yeah, it's off down that way," he told her, motioning down the path that sloped deeply into the woods. He'd jogged down there a couple of mornings, just to scope out the territory, and knew that the trees quickly thinned out to edge up to a secluded little pond with concrete accoutrements.

If one was really desperate, they could pretend there was fish in it, and it wouldn't be too bad a place to relax.

"Wanna go check it out?" She tried not to let her excitement show in her tone, but he heard it anyway.

He shrugged, reciprocating the feigned indifference. "Sure. Why not?"

When blue eyes rolled at him, he knew she knew he knew. But she didn't say anything else, instead pulling him off towards the path in question. But they paused at the top of the path, eyeing the slope warily.

"Crap," he heard Samantha mutter darkly under her breath.

She wasn't so good with slopes. Limited mobility was a bitch, especially when it kept her just unbalanced enough to make a hill like this one a herculean feat. And that was just getting down there. Coming back up was another matter entirely.

But Jack wasn't one to let geography stand in his way. "Here, this way," he urged her, guiding her off into the grass. Just before they ran into the nearest property line, the slope leveled off to a do-able pitch, and they both made their way down until they rejoined the asphalt path leading off into the trees.

When he grinned at her in smug triumph, all he got was another eye roll. "My hero," she drawled in a rote monotone. "What would I ever do without you?"

"Oh, ouch!" he quipped, miming a mortal wound to the heart. "You cut me, woman. See if I help you next time…"

Her deadpan shifted to full-throated chuckle, but Jack nearly tripped when she pecked a light kiss against his cheek. It was light, ethereal, and all-too-brief, but even though Jack almost had a heart attack, she didn't seem to share his sudden case of nerves.

Her gait remained the usual, and her arm remained relaxed where it looped through his. As if to rub it in, her head leaned against his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck in teasing fashion. But even that was too brief for his liking, as her head immediately lifted again when the reservoir came into sight.

Between the cascade of fall colors reflecting against the surface of the pond, and the warm glow of the mid-afternoon sun, Samantha's tightened grip on his arm wasn't really a surprise. It was better than a picture. The light hit just the right way, the crisp tang of autumn sharpened the air just enough, and Samantha's warm presence on his right arm created the perfect storm of moments that took his breath away.

Apparently, Samantha felt much the same way.

"Wow," she said, her voice brimming with awe.

Jack grunted his agreement. His morning jogs had yielded nothing more than a misty little pond, but seeing it like this put a whole new spin on the place. He hadn't noticed before, but there was also the faintest sound of running water coming from somewhere, though he couldn't locate the source.

"Let's get closer to the water," she suggested, pulling him along with her before he could think to resist. Not that he would. They made their way to a concrete jetty hanging out over the water, and at the edge she pulled away from him to peer over the edge with the curiosity of a child. "How deep do you think it is?"

"Oh," he hemmed, scanning the perimeter of the lake. "Thing this size… five, maybe six feet—"

He didn't get a chance to finish before he felt the pressure of a slender hand between his shoulder blades. It registered as pleasant for a split second, before the hand gave a vicious push, catching him off guard and unable to keep himself upright.

The world faded into the deadened sound of being underwater, but a moment later his head broke the surface, and he was instantly looking for the danger he'd failed to see coming. But the only culprit he found was a broadly grinning blonde.

Panic turned to relief in a flash, followed quickly by disbelief. "Oh, no. You did not just do that."

"Yes," she laughed breathlessly, mist curling from her lips, "yes, I did!" Her eyes sparkled undauntedly. "You should have seen the look on your face!"

Jack rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah… just help me outta here, will you? It's freezing."

Still laughing, she stepped up to the edge and extended her hand towards him. He clasped it with a sopping one of his own, but in a moment of brilliance, he planted his feet against the concrete wall and pulled.

She yelped just before she hit the water, and he didn't let go of her hand until he'd helped her back up to the surface. His arms kept her afloat; though he could plant his feet on the bottom easily, she was just short enough to have to tread water, and with her leg and arm the way they were, he knew she wasn't in any shape to keep herself above water.

She came up with an undignified splutter and gasped bitterly in his direction. Slicking her hair away from her face, she glared at him…

Only to freeze when she found her nose a fraction of an inch from his. They were closer than they'd ever been before, and the wide-eyed stare meeting his told Jack that she felt the electric sizzle in the air as much as he did.

"Payback's a bitch," he murmured, his voice low to keep it from cracking. Her breath puffed from her lips like curls of smoke, even as her teeth chattered.

"I guess I deserved that," she said, just as low. It gave her voice a throaty sound that sent shivers down his spine.

"Mhmm," he mumbled. Self-control, he reminded himself. Self-control, self-control, self-control…

But then something in her eyes sparked, and she began to smile. As soon as her lips curled upward into that familiar grin, his control snapped.

He swore he blacked out. Because the next thing he knew, her hand was curling around his neck, pulling him closer as their lips met in a kiss—did he start that?—that literally had the air steaming around them. Not sloppy, not frenzied, but slow and sure and full of something he'd never had with Sara. Not like this.

They pulled apart a moment later, and Jack was sure his ears were just as red as hers were. She leveled a sheepish look his way, doe-eyed and mischievous all at once.

"If that's payback," she issued, slightly out of breath, "then I should push you in here more often."

He smirked. "If you think that's something, you should see what I can do when we're dry."

She laughed, and slid closer to him in the water, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "I think I'd like that," she said softly. He could feel her sudden vulnerability in the sudden tension that gripped her frame. "Do you want to do this?"

"Samantha…"

"I might forget," she continued. "It's not fair to you, I know. I don't even know if this is the first time we've done this. We might've already slept together and I wouldn't know. But I feel like I know you… More than I should." Her head lifted, and she looked him in the eye. "I want this, but I don't know if it's right for me to be so selfish—"

"Stop." He used his best CO voice, and it worked. She fell silent, but her eyes lowered, unwilling to meet his gaze. "Samantha, you are the least selfish person I've ever met," he told her, his voice calm and firm. "You don't ever complain, you don't ever ask for anything, and I know that you feel guilty that I'm here taking care of you instead of taking care of my own life."

Her cheeks flushed, and he knew he'd hit a sore spot. He pressed on undaunted.

"I'm living better than I have in years," he continued softly. "And that's thanks to you. And I know I've led you to believe that I'm this macho, chivalrous guy—" He saw her smile a bit at that one. "But believe or not, I'm just not man enough to pretend that there's anywhere else I'd rather be."

She stared at him. "But—"

"Ack!" He waved off any further rambling. "Stop thinking. You're making my head hurt."

It was a common complaint he made, and it got the desired reaction. She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with mirth. He stared for a moment, his breath stolen, until the spell was broken when he saw her teeth chattering almost audibly.

"Oh, Jesus, you're freezing." Guilt washed over him, as he realized just how stupid he'd been to pull her into the damn pond. "God, I'm sorry—"

"Deserved it," she reminded him.

It didn't ease the guilt even an inch. Especially not when the reminder was stuttering and shaky with the shivers coursing through her. He pulled her with him towards the ladder cut into the concrete jetty. Today would be a good day to break in the new fireplace, he decided. After he got her into a warm shower and bundled her in blankets. And made her hot chocolate.

God, he was an idiot. She had no insulation to speak of, still too thin to keep herself warm. She was far too vulnerable to illness to make a cold dunking in a lake a good idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid… He pulled them both over to the ladder cut into the concrete, and helped her climb up and out of the water. But she had to sit on the edge until he climbed up as well; she couldn't push herself to her feet unaided.

He tugged her up by her wrist, steadying her as she rose. Once up, she surprised him by planting another kiss on him, this time slightly off-center—like she'd meant to go for his cheek, but had changed her mind at the last minute. His cheeks flushed under the chill of the water still dripping off his chin.

"Thank you," she said, her cheeks rosy.

He eyed her. "I think I'm supposed to be the one saying that." A lop-sided grin answered him, and he brushed the wet hair from her forehead. "Let's go home, huh?"

"How're you doing?"

Jack's query was answered more by the rattling cough than the muttered fine. The television murmured in the background, but his attention was focused on the task at hand—massaging the muscles in her bum leg. She'd seized up on the way home, and periodically off and on since she'd warmed up. It hadn't taken long for the cold to settle in either—when she'd sneezed twice before they'd even made it to the front porch, he'd known they were in for it.

Layers of flannel and warm chicken noodle soup had made her feel better, but the symptoms still had her sniffling and coughing miserably. But she was doing her best to not complain, for his sake, but she couldn't hide the bright red nose and the husky voice. He could only count his blessings for the fact she didn't seem to be suffering too bad a headache. Yet.

So far, he figured it could be worse. He couldn't really complain, after all. He had her legs on his lap and he was kneading the soft skin with his bare hands. He definitely had the better end of the deal. It was a realization that sent a fresh wave of guilt flooding through him.

His hands must have stilled, because a moment later a throaty voice drifted up from the other end of the couch.

"Stop thinking. You're making my head hurt."

He scoffed a hollow laugh. "Stealing my line. Classic."

"Hey!" Damn. She didn't use that scolding voice often, but when she did, she nailed it. Every time. "This isn't your fault," she told him firmly. "Besides, didn't you say that payback was a bitch? Consider this payback."

He shook his head. "Not worth it."

"Totally worth it."

"Nope—" He froze. "Wait—what?"

A tiny smile slid over her features. "Totally worth it," she repeated. "I'd do it again."

"Even if you got sick all over again?"

She chuckled, settling her head back down onto the armrest. "Even if."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded his acceptance. His hands resumed their massage, this time less careful about being strictly professional. She might've felt the difference, because her legs languorously in his lap, but he couldn't be sure.

But it made him smile a little bit. Okay, so maybe it was a smirk. "That was a pretty good smooch, wasn't it?"

"Ehhhhh…"

"Ehhhhh? What is that?"

She shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "I'd need another one to be sure."

His eyebrow arched. "Another one, huh?"

She nodded, giving a murmured mhmm. A beat of silence passed, and then he shrugged.

"I think I could handle that."

"You better."


	17. Chapter 17

Physical therapy was both a blessing and a curse.

It was a necessary evil, a bi-weekly torture that both sought to recuperate Samantha's strength and mobility, and return her sense of independence. It left her sore, exhausted, and irritable, often ruining her entire day when she returned home with barely enough energy to get to her room unaided. More often than not, she napped the rest of the day away, falling asleep as soon as she either sat or lay down.

But on the other hand, it gave Jack a chance to go off on his own without leaving her by herself. He drove her to the hospital, got her checked in, and waited until she was taken back to the physiotherapy rooms to before he booked it.

More often than not, Jack used the precious time to visit his son.

Charlie's college campus was close enough that he had enough time to drive over and share a lunch with the kid before going back to the hospital. Not that he could tell Charlie what he was doing. It was a good thing that, as an Air Force brat, the kid was used to getting 'classified' for an answer, because it was all he could give when Charlie asked questions. And the kid couldn't not ask questions.

His boy was sharp—too sharp for his own good sometimes.

"You know, Dad…"

Jack met Charlie's gaze from across the table, determined not to let his discomfort show. He was used to playing twenty questions, after all… but somehow, the fact it was about her made his hackles go up.

"I just can't think of what you could be doing in Illinois that could be classified. I mean, with all this free time you have to come visit—not that I don't enjoy our lunches, I do—I'm starting to think you're pulling my leg."

Jack shrugged, shoving his empty steak plate away. "I don't question it. Gift horses, and mouths, and all that…"

Charlie took a swig of his beer, relaxing back into his chair with the nonchalance only a college kid could have. When the hell did his kid get old enough to drink, fer cryin' out loud? Once settled, he nodded his acceptance.

"Probably a smart move," he said drolly.

"I thought you were here to study political science, not those claptrap conspiracies." Jack eyed his kid suspiciously. "I'm not gonna have to bail you out of Gitmo one of these days, am I?"

A sweatshirt-clad shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. "If they get me, they wouldn't put me any place as obvious as Gitmo."

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud…"

"I'm telling you, Dad, you think the government would want an American dissenter in with the rest of the rabble? Gitmo's for the people they formally acknowledge they have in custody. Political prisoners and terrorists."

Jack sighed. "Aw, c'mon, Charlie-boy…"

It was a tired subject. To Charlie, the government was questionable, as was its affiliates. To Jack, it wasn't worth the risk it put to his family to decry the feds. The only reason they'd managed to remain civil all these years was the fact that Charlie wasn't anti-government, per se…

He simply believed the government needed more supervision, which was something Jack could appreciate.

In his years in the black ops, he'd seen what could happen when the few had too much power. It was then that the many became vulnerable. It wouldn't take much for the US to descend into the state of some of the countries he'd done missions in, where the people were prisoners of the government they'd failed to resist.

"I'm just saying… if they ever saw me as a threat, and if they did get me, there won't be bail and it won't be Gitmo. I'd just… disappear."

Just like in Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, Turkey, Afghanistan—places where thousands of people simply vanished. Some were murdered, some imprisoned for years. Either way, they simply… blinked out of existence, without anyone knowing what happened to them. It was a chilling concept, and the idea that it could happen to Charlie made his blood run cold.

"Yeah, well," Jack said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Just don't do anything stupid, all right? I raised you better than that."

A shit-eating grin spread over Charlie's youthful features, reminding Jack just how well he'd taught his boy. Sara always said they were more alike than either of them acknowledged. But Jack did acknowledge it—just not to anyone else. And he was proud as hell.

Despite the fact he might not exactly approve of Charlie's choice of majors, at least it meant that his boy wouldn't be risking his life doing what Jack had done for so many years. It had been his single-biggest fear when Charlie had turned of age, and had flirted with the idea of joining the military. The day his son had declared his intention to go to college—maybe even go to graduate school—had been a greater relief than he'd anticipated.

"You're different, Dad."

Jack blinked. "Huh?"

Charlie smirked at his dad's stunned reaction. "I noticed a while ago, but I thought it might've just been a good month, but… it's lasted a lot longer than I thought it would."

"Than you thought what would?"

"You're happier. You're smiling more, and ever since you took the training gig… well, you've been bored. And it showed." Charlie shrugged. "I don't think you're bored anymore."

Jack stared at his coke glass, unwilling to look his boy in the eye. What the heck was he supposed to say to that? Why yes, son, you're right. In fact, I'm the very opposite of bored, because I found a woman who keeps me on my toes every second of every day. And believe it or not, she's a beautiful woman to boot…

"So… what's her name?"

Jack jerked abruptly in surprise. "Wha—What's whose name?"

Charlie smiled smugly. "Aw, c'mon Dad. You can't fool me. You haven't had that dopey look on your face since I was five, and you were still with Mom. You met someone, and I bet it's the reason you've stayed in the area as long as you have."

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Charlie cut him off.

"You've been saying you were gonna request a transfer back to a field position as soon as I got settled on campus. But now all of a sudden you're chill with just hanging around the 'burbs of Chicago?" Brown eyes rolled sarcastically. "I would say I'm flattered, but I ain't buying."

Jack took a deep breath. Ho, yeah… this kid was way too smart for his own good. And he wanted to be a politician when he grew up. Change the world, he said. Maybe his boy actually would.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ack... fine. Don't tell me," Charlie dismissed readily. But Jack could tell from the way he stared at his plate that he wasn't quite finished yet. He was just debating how best to word his next—

"So, she's that special, huh?"

"What?"

Charlie grinned. "You don't care if I meet the ones that are gonna leave in a week. You don't care what I think about them. But if you really like someone you keep them away if I might have to put up with them sticking around for a while." The grin went full-blown Cheshire. "You don't like running the risk of me not liking them."

"That's not true…"

"So that thing with Elaine?"

Jack's brows lifted. "That wasn't—"

"And Trisha?"

"You know she—"

"Kerry."

Jack sighed in surrender. "All right, all right… Fine. It's true."

"Of course it's true," Charlie returned easily, gladly rubbing it in. But then he grinned. "But it's only because you care about me."

Jack's discomfort abruptly eased, and warmth washed over him at the clear, unashamed confirmation of his relationship with his son. Charlie was the one person on the planet he would do anything for, and the kid damn well knew it. Jack credited that knowledge for single-handedly protecting his son from the divorce trap—Charlie never had any misconceptions that the divorce was his fault, or that he was no longer loved.

Hell, the kid had even gotten a kick over the fact his namesake was now his stepfather. Go figure.

"You know…" This time, Charlie was hesitant. He fingered the edge of his beer glass, his eyes suddenly downcast. The lack of eye contact sent Jack back on the defensive; it was rare that the kid ever beat around the bush.

"This lady must be really something, if you're this defensive about it."

It was a simple statement, but one that rang intimately true. Worse yet, Jack was sure Charlie could see just how true it was. He'd never really been keen on being read like an open book, but his son was too much like him not to see.

"Well, I gotta get going," Charlie chirped lightly. "I have International Political Economy up next, and I gotta prep to lead the riveting in-class discussion sure to be had." He got to his feet, stretching his lanky frame to its full height.

With his scruffy mop of hair, he looked less like a politician-to-be and more like one of those skater boy punks who rolled their boards around town all day, but all Jack could see was his kid all grown up. The almost-wise glint in those too-similar eyes didn't help any.

"And you know, Dad, I'm old enough now that you don't really have to worry about whether or not I like your date," he continued, his voice steady and even. "If you like her, then that's all that matters."

Charlie's brown eyes crinkled into an easy grin. "Just so long as you're happy."

Jack didn't respond. How could he? Luckily for him, Charlie didn't need a response. His grin turned slightly triumphant at having rendered his dad speechless, and then he was shooting off a bright 'bye, Dad!' as he trotted off to his next class.

Jack paid the bill, and solemnly made his way back to his truck. As he threw it into drive and pulled on to the freeway, retracing the familiar route back to the hospital, his mind drifted into familiar territory. It was where his mind had taken up residence in the past few months. Samantha.

The radio stayed off, and the windows stayed rolled up, keeping him insulated and isolated with only his thoughts and the echoes of Charlie's words swirling around and around in his head.

If you like her, then that's all that matters… Just so long as you're happy.

He only wished it could be that simple.


	18. Chapter 18

Jack opened the front door and stepped into the shadowy interior of the house, and closed the door against the growing chill of the outdoors. His impromptu visit to his brownstone had been a short one, just long enough to pick up a few more movies and CDs, but even that had seemed too long.

He wasn't sure why. Samantha had been fine when he left, content to wait until he got home before choosing a movie for the evening. But still, something in his gut niggled at him, urging him to make it as short as possible.

And as he stepped deeper into the house, he realized his concern had been justified.

Just not in any way he would have expected.

"What the hell…?"

A blonde head lifted from where it was bent low over a sheet of paper. At least he thought it was a sheet. It could have been two, or even a dozen. He couldn't really tell amid the sea of scribbled-on scrap paper that covered every available surface in the room. The buffet that lined the far wall, the kitchen bistro counter, the coffee table, and most noticeably the round table they most often ate at. That was where she was at now, with an array of papers and books spread out before her.

And where there weren't any sheets of paper or textbooks, there were dozens upon dozens of balled up scraps of paper.

As soon as she registered it was him who had walked in the door, she turned her attention back to the sheet in front of her, writing furiously across the already crowded page. No explanation, no greeting, no nothing. Just a silent blink and an anxious brush-off…

Somehow he knew that it wasn't his arrival that had her anxious. It was something else.

"Samantha…"

"Hold on," she returned, her voice little more than a mutter. Her eyes didn't lift at all this time.

Jack congenially gave her a moment, using the opportunity to pick his way through the mess to investigate some of the papers on the key table. He almost picked up a page, but halted when she issued a clipped, "don't touch anything."

So instead he bent at the waist to peer at the scrawl hands-free.

It was gibberish. Letters and symbols and nothing that made any sort of sense to him. He could see that much of it was equations—the likes of which he'd never seen before in his life—but beyond that he knew nothing. But when he looked back at Samantha, her attention still fixed to her paper, the stone his gut settled a little deeper.

He straightened slowly, trying to keep from reacting. He needed more intel before he could go flying off the handle. Maybe this was normal. Maybe it was a different kind of mental flush. But somehow he figured that it wasn't anything so simple as that.

He crossed to the dining table, and peered over her shoulder. She didn't seem to notice, and he had the chance to look at one of the thick books that was lying open in front of her.

"Laws of Deep Space Physics?" he read aloud. His jaw clenched suddenly and painfully. "Samantha, can you talk to me for a second?"

"Busy for a second," she handed back absently. "Done soon. Come back later."

"No, I'm not going to come back later," he forced out, his voice gaining an edge. "I need to talk to you."

She didn't respond. Jack waited ten long seconds, then reached out and covered her writing hand with his. But instead of stopping, she swiftly rose to her feet, limping away from him and towards the coffee table, taking a sheaf of papers with her.

Damn it. What the hell was this?

"Samantha, where did the books come from?" All of the ones on the table were titled similarly to the first, and he'd bet his bottom dollar that the ones on the coffee table—the ones she was now flipping through furiously—were the same.

"Bookshelf," she answered. "I was bored. Wanted to read, found these."

Jack nodded. He would buy that. He'd never really taken a look to see what was lurking on those shelves. "And are you copying them out?"

There was long moment before she answered. "No."

"All right… Then what is all of this?"

The sound of rustling papers was all he could hear for a long moment before, "I'm fixing them."

Jack sucked in a deep breath, praying for patience. "Fixing them…"

"They're wrong. Not right. Huge assumptions—it's wrong."

Jack crossed towards the couch, settling himself down on the couch next to her. He didn't get in the way of her scribbling, though, or her efforts to look for some specific piece of information in the notes already scribbled.

"Can you tell me how you know they're wrong?"

Her good shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I just do. I can see it, floating right in front of me… But when I look too hard it disappears. But sometimes it just comes to me. Like here—" She pointed to an equation written along the top of a faintly tattered page. "This isn't a constant. They try to tell you it is, but it isn't. It's a variable exponent. They should know that. But they don't. They don't know."

He wasn't even going to pretend he knew a constant from a variable exponent. He couldn't if he tried. But that wasn't the issue here. "Samantha…"

He tried to catch her gaze, but ultimately failed. What he did catch, though, was the tell-tale furrow in her brow.

"Samantha, do you have a headache?"

"Doesn't matter," came the succinct response.

"Yes, it does matter." Then he saw how she was listing ever so slightly. Her shoulder was hurting too. No wonder, from all the writing she'd been doing.

The scrawl on the pages was shaky, uneven and stuttered, belying the pain she must be in. Her physical therapy had only just gotten started on finer motor control. She wasn't in any shape to be doing this kind of writing. "Why didn't you take something for it?" he asked, his voice soft, but firm.

"Busy. Couldn't stop, or else it'd all disappear." She shook her head. "Had to finish first."

"It's not going to disappear, Samantha," he observed gently. He motioned towards the sea of notations and diagrams she'd accumulated. "I don't think it could if it tried."

"But my information isn't here, Jack," she countered swiftly. "It's not here, or in those books," she waved back towards the dining room table. "It's all in here," she tapped the side of her head. "But I can't concentrate enough to get it all out. I keep thinking—"

She cut off abruptly, her eyes widening slightly. Quickly she turned back to her notes, and scribbled new chicken scratch in a tiny open space. Then she circled it and scribed a broad arrow, arcing up and over to the far corner of the page.

"Samantha, listen to me. You're going to hurt yourself if you don't take a second—"

But she was gone again. Literally. She stood and strode to the island counter, only to be halted suddenly when Jack reached out and snagged her by her good hand. "Samantha!"

His voice came out like a bark, and it was harsh enough to snap her out of her head space. Her eyes flew to his in surprise, truly focusing on him for the very first time since he'd returned home. She stared with her lips partly open, shock blanking her features for brief moment.

"Listen to me," he said quickly, while he still held her attention. "You need to take something for your headache. Do it for me, okay? Just take something real quick, and then you can go back to whatever it was you were doing."

Her eyes tracked to the papers in her hand, as though she'd forgotten she even had them. And as soon as she saw them again, she froze. Her eyes flicked back and forth, reading the page, and then her eyes closed in frustration.

Before she even said anything, he knew. He'd distracted her, and whatever she'd had on her mind was gone. But it wasn't like a mental flush. This time, she knew exactly what it was she had lost.

"Damn it," she growled, yanking her hand roughly from his. "Go away, Jack."

"No," he replied. "No way."

"Go away, Jack! You're just making it worse!"

"Well, I'm not leaving."

She stormed away from him, fuming. "Then at least be quiet. You're not helping, and I need to finish this, before…"

Her voice trailed off, her eyes going unfocused once more as she drifted off into thought. But Jack didn't care. "Before what?"

"Hmmm?" Her tone was infinitely softer, as though she hadn't just been shouting at him.

"Before what?" he repeated firmly.

"Before what?"

Jack bit back sigh. "That's what I just said."

Her brow furrowed, even as she leafed through a textbook on the dining room table. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she told him.

"Well then, that makes two of us."

"What?"

"You know what?" he growled, finally losing his patience. "I'm going to go get your meds, and then I'm going to sit my chair and wait for the pain to get bad enough that you can't function anymore. Then maybe you'll snap out of your goddamn trance. How does that sound?"

"Mhmmm," she murmured absently, her thoughts already elsewhere.

Jack blinked. Then he bit back what he really wanted to say in favor of uttering a quick "You'll know where to find me"—a sentiment that went unacknowledged. Jack groaned audibly—not that she heard it—but he did what he said he would.

He got her pills, and then plopped himself down in his lazy boy. Once there, he simply watched. He watched her move restlessly from table to table, flipping through book after book, searching for answers she had but couldn't explain.

Every so often she would become disgusted with one piece of paper or another, crumple it up into a ball, and then toss it onto the floor—thereby explaining the minefield of paper balls he'd walked into when he first came in. But then, a while later, she sometimes went searching for it once more, pawing through the balls until she found the right one. It was a vicious cycle, and one that didn't always yield a solution.

Sometimes she muttered to herself, sometimes she simply raked her hand through her already tousled hair. He watched the hours tick by, looked as her limp grew more pronounced, exacerbated by the near-constant motion. And he waited, until her hand started to shake, and then simply refused to close properly around the pencil she was trying to use.

It was only then that she finally came all the way out of it. She sat back in her chair—back at the dining room table, in the end—and ran a tired hand over her eyes, sighing laboriously. When she looked up again, she seemed bleary and exhausted, even as she looked around her, searching him out.

Jack waited silently, following through on his vow to wait for her to come to him. When she spied him, she offered a weary smile.

"Hey, you're home."

Jack felt his eyebrow lift, in part shock and part disbelief. "Yeah," he drawled petulantly. "Imagine that."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What's wrong? Did something happen?" She flexed her sore hand, massaging it with her good one.

"Oh, no," he offered drily. "Just came home to find the house turned into a massive fire hazard and my roommate invaded by some body-snatcher. Other than that, everything's peachy keen."

Samantha blinked at him, once, then rubbed her temples. "Could you not talk in riddles, Jack?" she asked softly. "My head hurts."

Jack forced himself to bite back the I told you so in favor of acknowledging—to himself, at least—that he had won this one. He'd certainly called it. He just hadn't anticipated the mini-mental flush.

Or had he? Because he honestly wasn't all that surprised that she was a little blurry on reality at the moment.

In the end, he got to his feet, crossing the space between them in a few loping strides. He handed her the pill bottle, then wordlessly went to get her a glass of water. By the time he returned, she'd already dry-swallowed the pills, which only reinforced how much she really was hurting. Against his snider self, he felt the knot in his gut loosen slightly in sympathy.

"I bet you're tired, huh?" he asked, offering her an olive branch. She might not have realized it, but he did. When she hummed a low affirmation he offered her his hand. "Then let's get you to bed."

Taking his hand, she shakily got to her feet, just in time for her stomach to render a sonorous rumble. They both paused for brief moment, before she blushed and he smirked.

"Hungry too, I guess?"

"Starving," she confessed. She glanced at her watch, then frowned. "That can't be right. Is it really that late?"

He nodded. "Dark out and everything. Did you eat at all today?" He knew she'd had a bowl of cereal for breakfast—not Frooties. Turns out she really did hate them.

"There was the cereal this morning, and then…" Her voice trailed off, and then she blinked. "There was the, uh…" She shook her head. "I don't know. I thought I did, but I can't remember…"

"It's okay," he assured her. "Go sit…" He cast a look around, searching for a surface that wasn't completely swimming in paper. He didn't find one. He sighed. "Got sit at the counter. I'll make you a sandwich."

She nodded her thanks, and blessedly did what she was told. Jack made the sandwich a simple one—peanut butter and jelly—and handed it to her without fanfare. She took it, and bit into it hungrily. When she was almost halfway through she slowed, her appetite slightly whetted. It was only then she glanced at the papers strewn about around her.

"I didn't know you were into math," she commented thoughtfully. She pulled a page closer to her, twisting it to its proper orientation. "This is physics, isn't it?"

"You tell me."

She blinked, her eyes sharpening in shock and hurt. "What was that for?"

He shrugged. "I'm not the one who did all that."

"You're not? But—" Her gaze held his, understanding dawning. "You mean… I—?" He nodded somberly. "But—"

Her lips pressed into a thin line and she looked more closely, setting aside her sandwich. She picked up a page instead, scanning the sheet with a sharp eye.

"Do you know what any of it means?" Jack asked carefully.

She kept scanning for a moment, then shook her head. "No… Nothing."

Jack shrugged, not really minding that she didn't. It was probably for the better anyway. Even so, she stood abruptly, relinquishing the paper in question. She stepped stiffly away from the counter, leaving both the scribble and her sandwich behind.

"I think I'm going to go lie down," she told him, her voice low. The look in her eye was the only indication she was disconcerted. "Thanks for the sandwich..."

"Any time."

She nodded, and then she was moving down the hall to the bedroom. Jack stayed where he was but listened closely, not moving until he heard the door close behind her. Then he sagged against the counter, his energy disappearing in the blink of an eye.

He closed his eye for a long moment, but when he opened them again the mess was still there and the confusion in his gut was quickly changing to dread. What the hell had just happened? Where the hell had she gotten those books anyway? She'd said she'd gotten them from the bookshelf—but he hadn't stocked that bookcase, had he? No, that had been…

The Air Force. They'd left astrophysics reference books on the bookshelf. Bastards. They'd been hoping for this. They'd wanted to see what she would do when presented with her life's work. This stuff—it was all hers. She remembered it somehow, even if she didn't recognize it for what it was. The brilliance he'd read about in her file was still there, hidden by the nuances of an amnesia that seemed to play by its own rules.

Damn it. Such a risky gamble—it could have gone much, much worse. But now that the immediate concern was past, Jack could now see the even bigger problem he was faced with. What did he do now? What would he do with the reams of scrap paper, the scribbling—doodles, really, for all he knew—that was so far over his head it was in the freaking stratosphere?

The soldier in him knew that it was his duty to hand it all over to Landry with his next report. It was obviously what the General expected him to do. But against all his training—he found himself reluctant. If he did that, then all bets were off. If they found out what she kinda-sorta remembered, then she would never know another moment's peace.

They would hound her to assume the role of Mission Commander, thrust her into the spotlight and toss her to the wolves. And he would be powerless to stop them. Eventually, they would want her to resume her work with NASA, even if it was only in a consulting position. She would never go into space again but her approach to the science made her too valuable to let fade into the oblivion of retirement.

Jack froze.

Retirement? Space?

With the force of a speeding freight train, Jack remembered exactly who Samantha was. She wasn't the mission commander. She wasn't an astronaut. Jesus.

He'd gotten so used to this woman—this incredible woman who was neither a Colonel nor a Mission Commander—being nothing more than… than what? His roommate? His patient? His girlfriend?

But she was so much more than any single one of those things, even without thinking about alternate timelines. She was Samantha Carter, an entity unto herself—one he'd fallen in love with. And now she is in danger of vanishing under the shadow of those other Samantha Carters, both of whom threatened what he shared with her.

The officer in him whispered that the ends justify the means, that duty prevails above all else. She was an assignment, one he'd taken on out of guilt and an overactive conscience. But she wasn't. Because as ingrained as the officer in him was, he couldn't bring himself to reduce her to a bad judgment call.

She was too important.

She was too important to him.

Screw NASA and the Air Force. She wasn't ready for all of that. His own selfish desires aside, she simply wasn't ready. Tonight only proved it, case in point. If they tried to rush her, they would inevitably do irreparable damage. Either she'd remember too much—and in the process lose their Mission Commander—or she'd crack. Completely.

He wasn't about to risk that.

Jack sucked in a deep breath, and solemnly got to work. He gathered up every scrap, every crumpled ball and every sheaf of paper he could find. It took multiple trips, but he made them without a single second thought. His loads went straight to the trash bins out front. They would be emptied come sunrise, and every trace of the stuff would be relegated to some stinking pile of trash at the nearest dump.

What little remorse he felt for his actions—because it had obviously meant something to her—was buried under a generous heaping of righteous surety. He would not let her wander into the mouth of the lion's den so readily.

Not while he still had breath in his body.


	19. Chapter 19

"Jack!"

The sharp cry had him bolting upright in an instant, sleep-fogged to the point that he wasn't sure he was still asleep or not. But the second roused him the rest of the way with the precision of a razor knife.

"No, Jack—don't!"

He was on his feet before the silence descended again, his bare feet dashing across the carpeted floor as he flung the door open and sprinted down the hall. He made it to her room not really knowing what to expect, his body reacting on instinct alone. His capacity to think was apparently still asleep.

So when he entered her room, pulse racing and chest tight with fear, he was glad to find no shadowy specter of a home intruder, no threat of any kind lurking in the dark. Instead all he found was Samantha still in her bed, body half-twisted as her features twitched in sleep.

And then his concern came roaring back, clenching his gut with apprehension.

"Jack…" Her voice was now deep instead of panicked, throaty with need. Now he could see the streaks of tears lining her cheeks, her good hand clutching at the sheets, as though reaching for something—or someone.

"Sir, please…"

That did it.

Jack crossed the room, not bothering to keep his steps quiet. But where he'd hoped she would waken before he reached, she only grew more disquiet. She murmured no, over and over— pleading with someone, for someone— and each thrash of her head made his gut twist a little more.

"Samantha…" His voice was soft. He knew he shouldn't try to wake her—too many times he'd heard that waking someone from a nightmare did more harm than good. And if he just let her ride it out, then odds were she wouldn't even remember the nightmare in the morning. But he simply couldn't sit there and just watch her.

"Jack." This one came out as a sob, desperate and heart-broken.

He sat on the edge of the bed, again hoping the motion of the mattress would wake her. It didn't. Her breath hitched in her chest, but in tears only, not consciousness.

"Samantha… wake up." His voice was soft and gentle. She didn't respond—didn't even stir. "Please, wake up…" He couldn't stand to see her like this.

He reached out to brush his fingers across the back of her hand, but before he could even come close to making contact, her entire body seized. A gasp was torn from her throat as she wrenched herself upright. In dark he saw her eyes flash open in panic, wild and jarred. They darted about, then widened in fear when they saw his lurking shadow.

Uh oh.

Jack reflexively reached out to reassure her, but she reacted instantaneously, recoiling with a jerk that twisted her entire body, tangled in the sheets.

"No!" she shouted. Or was it a moan? Either way, it was guttural enough that it shook Jack to the bones. Jack didn't take the time to figure it out.

He immediately pulled back, instead reaching for the bedside lamp, flicking it on in an effort to dispel the mystery of his identity. But as soon as it was on, she clenched her eyes shut in pain, and off it went again.

"Samantha, it's me. It's Jack. You're all right, you're safe. It was just a—"

"Jack?"

Her voice sounded small and plaintive in the dark quivering in disbelief. Jack swallowed thickly. "Yeah…"

"Oh, god."

It sounded like it was ripped from the pit of her stomach, dragged from her lips by the hounds of hell. What had she seen? What had she dreamt that could make her sound like that?

Suddenly, Jack wasn't sure he wanted to know. Because for all his assumptions, her nightmare could have been memory. Real memory.

That scared him more than anything else.

"Samantha…" He scooted closer to her on the bed. He could hear her breath grow ragged, but he didn't know if it was from tears or panic. Or both. "It's just me. You're okay. Just take deep breaths for me—"

His platitudes halted the instant he felt her hand brush against his, reaching. The touch of skin on skin was all the permission he needed to slide even closer. He firmly and smoothly pulled her upright and into his arms. She melted into his hold, her tears dampening his cotton shirt as she sobbed against him. She was still tangled in the sheets, but neither of them moved to do a thing about it—he kept her from falling, and that was enough.

It was several long minutes before she was capable of saying anything, and even then, he had to wonder if she was really, truly awake. It was rambling and disjointed, a rush of words as her thoughts sped through her mind at warp speed.

"It was… Jack, you were there—but you weren't! Everyone else knew something I didn't. I asked and asked but nobody would tell me why you had to go… I begged—I begged and begged but you couldn't tell me. You had to stay, but you wouldn't! Why didn't you stay? I pleaded with you—stay with me. Please. Please… Please. I said it over and over, butyouwouldn't…"

The last rush ended in tears, her hands clutching at him tightly, desperately, even as he felt her body start to slacken with fatigue. She was slipping back into sleep already, and he was glad for it. He stroked her hair slowly, easing the process as best he could. When she was nearly silent in his arms, he moved to set her down—only to have her hands dig into his sides, unconsciously gripping him in a vice-like grip.

"Nodon'tgo," she mumbled, her plea thick with tears. "Please… Don't go. Don't leave me alone again. I don't want to be alone…"

In the dark he could see her eyes struggling to remain open, but it was a losing battle. In a split second he made up his mind, and laid down next to her, keeping her comfortably ensconced in his embrace as both their heads found the pillow.

"It's all right," he told her gently, his lips brushing her ear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

And he didn't. He stayed exactly where he was, even when his arm tingled and then went numb, it remained where it was, pinned under her sleeping form. Together, they had a fitful night, getting only brief periods of sleep punctuated by sudden bouts of semi-wakefulness. Samantha bolted awake three more times that night, tearful and terrified and heartbroken in a maelstrom of emotion neither of them really knew what to do with.

It wasn't until the sun first started to creep around the edges of the curtains that she finally fell into some modicum of peace. Her movements stilled and her breathing eased into a steady rhythm. But Jack only managed to doze lightly before she awoke a final time, this time with a heavy sigh and a restive hum.

He watched her eyes open slowly. What surprised him the most was the small smile of content that curled her lips. When blue eyes met his, he was relieved to see instant recognition. "Hey."

"Hi," he returned warmly.

"I just had the strangest dream," she said softly, almost a purr.

Jack took a deep, silent breath. "Yeah?"

The top of her head tickled his chin as she snuggled closer to him, pressing her nose into the hollow of his throat. "There was this place… I don't know what it was. It had these high ceilings and all these warm colors… So many windows, it felt—honest, almost."

She looked up at him. "Can a place be honest?"

He shrugged. "Can't see why not. What happened?"

"I don't know. I just remember that it was surrounded by water. It must have been an island… and you were there. It was so peaceful, just the two of us. Just us, in this quiet, floating castle on the sea."

Jack rubbed a hand against her back. "Sounds like heaven."

"No…" she breathed in response. "Heaven was waking up."

She must have sensed his surprise at her answer, because a moment later blue eyes were looking up at him, wide and beautiful in the early morning light.

"You're supposed to feel safe in dreams," she elaborated. "But I feel safe here, and this is what's real. You're with me, and we still have our castle."

Jack's throat tightened painfully. He didn't really like the idea of their home being a castle. It felt too isolating, too much like a prison in his mind, to think of it as such. But maybe it was an apt description. She was isolated, after all… Very much so.

But the way she said it—it reassured him that she didn't see it the same way he did. She liked it this way. She didn't feel like a prisoner here, with him. Here, she was the queen, the grand empress, and he her consort.

He could live with that.

He tightened his arms around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. For a long minute they lay there, peaceful and content. But the memories of the night before were still fresh, and his concern had only been put on the back burner.

"How're you feeling this morning?" he asked lightly.

She grunted. He knew what it meant. Sore. Jack wasn't surprised, the way she'd been thrashing around.

He felt her suck in a ragged breath. "Last night must've been bad, if you're in here this morning."

Jack briefly debated sugar-coating things. In the end he was merely hesitant. "How much do you remember?"

She shook her head. "Nothing but pieces… Flashes of places, faces. They don't mean anything… but—" She paused, suddenly hesitant. "But… I think they mean everything. And they're already fading… If only I could just…"

Her voice trailed off, and she breathed deeply in an effort to keep the tears at bay. Jack closed his eyes, self-reproach roaring down on him in a heavy wave. What right did he have to keep this secret? It wasn't his secret to keep. It was her past, her identity. A decent man would have told her long ago that she had two friends wanting to see her, two friends who could answer all of her questions.

But he wasn't a decent man.

He was a selfish one.

There was no good reason to keep silent with what he knew, not when she was struggling like this. Not even in the face of getting himself court martialed, thrown in the brig, and barred from having any contact with Samantha Carter for the rest of what would surely be a miserable life.

He was selfish, plain and simple.

This morning though, he shoved his guilt to the back of his mind, focusing on the here and now. Here, they were happy. Now, they were safe.

Or so he thought.

"My heart hurts."

The words were soft, nearly inaudible from where she lay pressed against his chest. He hoped she couldn't feel his heart skip a beat.

"I know it sounds crazy," she continued, her voice low. "But… it's true. It hurts more every day, and the only time it eases even a little bit is when I'm with you." She turned into him slightly, closing her eyes.

"It's the only time I feel anything other than empty."

Jack's eyebrow hiked slightly as he looked down at the top of her head. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm planning on sticking around for a while."

She huffed an almost-laugh. He could feel her features twist into a smile. "Yeah… I guess so."

He grunted in feigned offense. "You guess so?" And just like that, the mood lightened. They were back into safe territory.

"Can't imagine where else you'd go."

She could think of a million other places he could be, he was sure. His own place, with his son— heck, even hanging out with Kawalsky and Sara. But that was just how her mind worked. He knew the truth of her words, even if she didn't.

He hummed deep in his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. "Exactly. Can't top heaven, can you?"

A giggle answered him.


	20. Chapter 20

"Hey, Samantha, are you ready to…"

Jack's voice trailed off as he stuck his head into the bedroom and saw his date's profile in the mirror of her vanity. She was dressed—though his eyes were instantly drawn more to the long expanse of bare back exposed than to the dress itself—and looked nearly ready to go.

But the way she was simply sitting there, and the way she didn't acknowledge his impromptu entrance, had him concerned. Her hands were in her lap, one curled around the handle of her hairbrush, the other clutching the fabric of her dress in a tight fist. She was simply staring into the mirror at her own reflection. Jack didn't overlook the tell-tale shimmer of tears in her eyes either.

He came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him. "Hey…" he started gently, moving smoothly closer. "What's wrong?"

For a long moment, she didn't respond. But when she finally sighed, he could hear her stuffy nose and the tightness in her throat.

"I, uh…" She sniffed, trying to clear her throat of the tears he could hear on the edge of her voice. It didn't help.

Jack came up behind her, and rested his hands on her shoulders. The dress left her shoulders mostly exposed, leaving enough bare skin to make his fingers tingle when they made contact. "You need any help?"

"Ah…" she didn't answer right away, and he didn't rush her. In the end, she huffed a sigh. "Yeah…" she whispered. "I, um… Could you…?"

Her eyes closed tightly. She was kicking herself for being so reluctant. It wasn't like her, and Jack knew it bothered her. She took a deep breath, and started again.

"I can't reach my hair…"

Jack blinked in surprise, then tried to cover it with schooled expression. It'd been weeks since she'd needed help brushing her hair. Her range of motion had greatly improved, and while she wasn't yet at full strength, she'd at least been capable of lifting the brush high enough to do the simple task herself.

When she'd assumed responsibility for the chore, she'd made some crack about it being a point of female pride… but Jack suspected that she was simply eager to regain her independence.

But now his mind was racing, wondering what she might've done to make her shoulder more sore than usual. He didn't ask her, though—not when she was so visibly upset by the fact she was once again so restricted in her movements.

"Here," he said gently, reaching down to take hold of her brush. "Let me."

It was something he actually missed doing. There was an intimacy to the slow, rhythmic motions, a soothing reptition that left him feeling warm and relaxed. Before, it had been a time where they could talk about anything they wanted—or nothing at all. This time, it was silent, but not naturally so.

She was tense, almost shaking, as though she were physically holding something back.

"You don't have to be ashamed about this," he told her softly. When she didn't respond, he continued. "You should have told me you were hurting. We didn't have to do this tonight."

The little 'date night in' plan he'd cooked up was simple; just a few candles here, a white tablecloth there… one upscale French meal delivered and voila—instant date without having to leave the comfort of your own home. When he'd first mentioned it, he'd thought she might laugh him off, but to his surprise she'd latched onto the plan without a moment's hesitation.

Maybe it was the prospect of doing something they'd never tried before, of breaking from their routine, or maybe it was the idea of toeing that line between friendship and something more that had her so excited. But it wasn't anything they couldn't push to a late date.

"I know," she confessed, her voice teary. "But you were so excited, and I wanted to do it. I really do…"

"It's not worth you suffering in silence," he countered. The brush moved up and down in slow, sure strokes, and her hair became soft and silky beneath his fingers. He looked up at the mirror in time to see her lips press into a thin line. "But that's not all, is it?"

Her head bowed, and her fingers worried each other minutely in her lap. "No," she said softly. "No, it isn't."

"Talk to me," he urged.

She sighed, lifting her head once more to meet his gaze in the mirror. "It's just… I don't think I ever really noticed before." Her fingers lifted to her brow, brushing lightly over the dimpled scar in her hairline.

She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to.

Her head dipped, breaking the eye contact they'd held in the mirror. Jack stilled his movements, letting one hand fall to her shoulder. "Samantha…"

"I'm not going to insult you by asking what it is you see in me," she said, her voice suddenly stronger. The quiver in her voice was gone. "You've never treated me like an invalid, and you've never seen me as less than a person. I don't even remember what I looked like before the accident, so feeling sorry for myself is pointless—"

"Hey." Jack moved to the side of the bench she was perched on, and crouched down to bring her gaze away from the mirror and over to him. He took her hand in his, setting the hairbrush aside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. And you know that I think you haven't even come close to your entitled-tears allowance. Anyone else would have pitied themselves a long time ago."

"That's not the point…"

Jack reached up and cupped her cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. "Maybe not," he conceded. "But I know from my time with Sara that there are times when we all want things to be fairy-tale perfect. And when they aren't, the imperfections can seem overwhelmingly obvious."

Blue eyes blinked at him, shining with tears. But when she didn't say anything, he knew he had hit the nail on the head.

"But I think this is partly my fault," he continued. Before she could protest, he pressed a finger to her lips. "Because I haven't done a very good job telling you how beautiful you are. That you're more beautiful than any woman I've had the pleasure of knowing."

Her cheeks flushed, and Jack knew she hadn't expected his brevity. He took an odd sense of satisfaction in her surprise, but he didn't let it show. There would be time for that later.

"I don't see your scars, Samantha…" His eyes tracked to the pink scrape across her brow, to the surgical scars exposed by her delicate shoulder straps, to the rugged terrain of her wrists—which still bothered her every now and then. All of them were marks he overlooked almost every single day, now that she was functioning almost entirely on her own.

"I see you."

Samantha swallowed, her lips pursing as she tried to keep her tears at bay. But when her nose crinkled, he knew it was a losing battle. He maneuvered himself up onto the bench beside her before the floodgates opened, and wrapped his arms around her just as the first sob came. Her head rested his shoulder, and he felt her arms circle his waist as he pulled her close.

She didn't cry so much as she simply let the tension bleed out of her. There were tears, yes—his suit jacket grew damp as a testament to that. But she remained quiet, and the rigidity of her posture slowly softened, as if to prove that he really had said the right thing for once.

When she pulled away, she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Then her eyes met his, wide and breath-takingly blue. He leaned in carefully, pressing his lips against hers. She accepted his kiss, even returning it with a tender one of her own. When he pulled back, his hand reached up to smooth her hair from her face, leaving her features open and unguarded.

His gaze caught on the scar peeking out from her hairline, and he paused. Then, on impulse he leaned in to kiss that too.

From there he worked his way down her neck, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses as he went until he reached the scars lining her shoulder. He traced them with the tips of his fingers, and then his lips. He was rewarded when he felt her shudder under his touch. Her hand rested on his thigh, squeezing just enough to leave him wanting more.

Her head leaned in to rest against his, and then simply stayed there. The pressure on his leg disappeared, and she withdrew, her head ducking slightly before she lifted it to look at him remorsefully.

"Still hurting?" he asked, reading her body language as clearly as if she had actually spoken.

She nodded. "I took something for it already, but it hasn't really helped. I'm sorry—"

"No apologies. There'll always be another night." He returned her tiny smile with a reassuring grin of his own. "You want to get into something more comfortable?"

She nodded again, her features creasing into a sheepish grin. He chuckled.

"Hop to it then," he instructed. "I think some coq au vin in front of the Simpsons is in order."

She wrinkled her nose. "No Simpsons tonight."

"No?" He shrugged. "Okay. What d'you have in mind?"

She thought about it for a long moment. "You said you got that wizard movie, right?"

"The Great and Powerful Oz?" he clarified. She nodded. "Absolutely. Good choice, as always."

She beamed, and he returned it just as the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of their dinner. He kissed her one more time before he got to his feet.

"I'll get it," he told her. "Then I'm going to get out of this monkey suit. I'll meet you downstairs." He shot her a wink. "Be there or be square."

"Yes, sir," she returned, her tone light, but still a little throaty from the last of her tears. Still sexy.

And you know— sir had a nice ring to it…

When night found him curled up on the couch with Samantha snuggled up against him under the blanket as the credits rolled, he couldn't bring himself to feel at all sorry that their evening hadn't gone as planned. It didn't matter his intended romance had been reduced to dinner on the couch and a movie, and it didn't matter that the ambience had shifted from steamy to playful in the space of an instant.

He was still warm, and he was still fulfilled—and that was all he could ever hope for.

The credits rolled, and he decided ol' Dorothy might've had it right after all.

There really was no place like home.


	21. Chapter 21

The knock on the door surprised both of them.

Samantha recovered before Jack did.

"I'll get it!" she shouted up the stairs, not giving him a chance to respond. She opened the door to find three unfamiliar men standing on her front porch. Two were in uniform—the third wore a crisp suit with a lavender tie.

She didn't recognize a single one of them, but a moment later she wondered why she expected to.

"Can I help you?"

The man closest to her—with the pretentious purple tie— answered. "Are you Samantha Carter?"

"Yes," she returned. She eyed them warily, as the two men in uniform exchanged a look. "What can I do for you?"

Something about them had her on edge, and she wasn't sure why. But finally the man who'd spoken squared his shoulders and peered around her into the depths of the house.

"Is Colonel Jack O'Neill here?" he asked brusquely. "We have business to discuss with him. With both of you."

She hesitated for a moment, then turned to call for Jack over her shoulder. She didn't let them cross the threshold until he'd come to join her, eyeing their new visitors with distaste.

"General."

The greeting was less than pleasant; Samantha could tell that the visit was as much a surprise to him as it was to her. After all, if he'd been expecting them, he would have told her, at the very least. But at least he recognized them.

The fact put her slightly more at ease. But not by much.

"Colonel," came the returned greeting.

"What's going on, sir?"

The General arched a brow. "I don't think we want to have this conversation on the front porch, Jack. Think we could maybe step inside?"

Jack looked to Samantha, and after a moment of eye contact, she shrugged minutely. Together, they took a step back to allow the three men into the house. But beyond that they did nothing. No offers to sit, no refreshment. Jack was on edge, and so was she.

It briefly registered to Samantha that these were the first visitors to enter the house since they'd moved in.

She hadn't realized how much it had become a safe haven until these people entered it. She couldn't shake the sense of violation that came with their entrance, but filed it away into the box labeled 'new experiences'. It may not be pleasant, but it was one step closer to normalcy.

"Thank you," the General said, but his smile seemed less than genuine. "It's cold for September, isn't it?"

"General Landry."

All three men seemed surprised to hear her speak up. Jack, she noticed… not so much. And if she wasn't mistaken, he seemed even a little smug about their surprise. "You came here for a reason. There's no need for small talk."

The General blinked. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you remembered who I was—"

"I don't know you," she cut in sharply. "But I can read." She looked pointedly to his name plate, and they all shifted uncomfortably on their feet. "You can start by introducing the rest of your entourage."

Landry cleared his throat. "Of course," he bit out crisply. He motioned first to the second uniform standing at his shoulder. "This is Major Paul Davis."

"Good afternoon, ma'am," the younger man spoke up, extending his hand. She took it, and he shook it with a firm grip. "It's an honor to meet you."

Samantha took a long look at him, and saw that his eyes were bright, clear… honest. And there was a soft-spoken demeanor about him that made him infinitely less threatening than the General. His shoulders were square as well—for whatever reason, it seemed to reinforce the aura of upright morality that rolled off of him in waves. Earnest, young… But he wasn't stupid.

She nodded, offering the man a smile. "A pleasure," she returned warmly. The Major's features tilted into a pleased smile. But a moment later, her attention turned to the even younger man standing behind the officers. "And you are?"

"Jeremy Hinds," came the overloud reply. He stepped forward abruptly, and stuck his hand out. If he'd expected her to respond the same as she had for Davis, then he was left disappointed. His manner was abrasive and unpleasant, and his handshake was left unreciprocated.

"Mr. Hinds is the personal assistant to the President's Chief of Staff," Landry supplied.

She looked at the kid with an arched brow. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

Hinds took back his hand with a dramatic grimace, clearly miffed. "It does most people," he replied snidely. "But I understand you have special circumstances."

Jack stepped up behind her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder to stave off the reactive retort rising to her lips. "Watch it, bucko," he delivered bluntly. "I don't care who you are—show some respect or I'll kick you out on your ass so fast you won't know what hit you."

Major Davis shuffled on his feet, clearly swallowing a smirk, and the General opened his mouth as if to reprimand Jack, but seemed to think better of it.

"We have a few matters to discuss with the two of you—separately." Landry eyed the both of them, clearly expecting them to protest. From the tightening of Jack's hand on her shoulder, she'd say he was right.

"General, I don't think—"

"There's no danger, Colonel," Hinds interrupted, his tone brash and dismissive. "We just need a few words."

Samantha leveled a glare at him before Jack could even think of a retort. "What are you, twelve?" she demanded, her tone positively caustic. She couldn't understand why the kid was even there. Was this an Air Force visit for Jack or not?

She looked up at Jack in disbelief, who in turn bit back a proud grin and looked to the General.

"Who the hell is this guy, Hank?"

"He's the man who makes sure your house is bought and paid for," came the droll response. "Now, Ms. Carter, is there somewhere Major Davis might be able to talk to you privately?"

A look to the Major revealed a tight-lipped smile—clearly he recognized the uncomfortable situation for what it was. But he wanted to put her at ease, that much was obvious. She looked at Jack, and when his brows lifted into a shrug, she knew he was putting the decision in her hands. And so she gave a slight eye roll, in a silent whatever.

The sooner they got this done, the sooner they could get on with their day.

His hand lifted from her shoulder, and she motioned to the Major with a nod. "We can use the den."

"We'll be in the kitchen," Jack told her, and she nodded as she passed, letting her hand trail across his midriff. The touch was familiar, made without conscious thought from her, but Jack saw the General's eyes zero in on the moment of contact.

Jack watched her go, and almost protested when the yuppie idiot Hinds trailed after her and Davis. But the General held up a hand, cutting him off before he could even get started. "The man has his uses, Jack, and he's harmless for all his talk. He won't hurt her."

"It's not her I'm worried about," he retorted. But it was. Sure, she could hold her own, but he was afraid what that idiot might let slip. He just had a bad feeling about this whole 'visit'.

"What's this really about, Hank? I've been sending the updates…"

"Yes," Landry agreed, "and the President is amazed at the progress she's been making." He looked towards the hall the others had vanished down, his features pensive. "And that was cute, by the way—the whole silent communication you two have going. Seems you have quite the rapport."

"Sir—"

"How long has it been since her last memory lapse? Thirty days?"

"Thirty-five," Jack corrected. It wasn't their record—they wouldn't pass that for another six days. But he had a good feeling about it. She'd been showing continuous progress, and her headaches had gotten less frequent.

"Thirty-five," the General repeated with no small amount of theatrical emphasis. "That's pretty good."

"What're you getting at, Hank?"

The General gave a slight shrug. "Important people want to start seeing some return on their investment, Jack."

Jack blinked. "Investment, Hank? Really?"

The man was unapologetic. "The people in Washington took a huge risk in allowing her to remain at large, Jack. Not only that but they've paid her medical bills and made sure she was housed and cared for…"

"You're preaching to the wrong choir here," Jack countered sharply. "If you recall, I was the one caring for her while you and the other stuffed shirts were figuring out how to twist that woman into your political puppet—"

Before Landry could answer, their attention was stolen by a shout from the den.

"I said turn it off!"

Samantha's cry was sharp with anger, bordering on the edge of panic. It jolted Jack's heart into a double-timed staccato, and he was sprinting towards the sound without a second look at the General. He burst into the room without hesitation.

His eyes found Davis sitting on the couch and Hinds lurking near the wall, but what caught his attention was that Samantha was on her feet, edging away from the open laptop siting on the coffee table in from of the Major—who looked more than a little uncomfortable.

But it was Samantha who was pale, her eyes wide and wild with growing anxiety. Her fingers covered her mouth, as though she was about to be sick. And given the state she was in, Jack didn't put it past her.

"Commander Carter, ma'am," Davis tried to soothe, "I assure you—"

"No!" She cut him off with an angry swipe of her hand before pointing at the offending computer. "That's not— It's not true!"

Jack's gut sank like a stone the moment the Major spoke, and only continued a steep downhill descent as he heard the shaky denial in her tone. Commander Carter. Crap.

Please, please, please tell me they didn't… Not like this.

He crossed the distance in three strides and turned the screen towards him. He was greeted by the sight of a fireball arcing across the clear blue sky of a cloudless day, a doomed shuttle hurtling towards the Atlantic Ocean on a terminal trajectory. Text scrolled across the bottom of the video screen, and the watermark in the corner attested to the fact that they had used actual news footage of the crash to illustrate the truth.

"What the hell is this?" he growled. "Tell me you didn't—"

"We provided the Commander factual evidence of her history… evidence you had kept from her, Colonel O'Neill."

Hinds' voice rose from the corner, clearly unconcerned with the scene playing out in front of him.

"Hank—" Jack growled his intent to beat the man senseless, and the General acknowledged it with a nod.

"Mr. Hinds, perhaps you should wait for us in the living room."

The kid straightened indignantly. "General—!"

"Now, Mr. Hinds."

This time, Hinds went, shooting Samantha a look that went unnoticed. Her eyes were glued to the laptop screen, watching the aired replay as it got slower and slower, and then even with hand-drawn arrows to show what had gone wrong, when. It was macabre, and Jack could see she was barely breathing.

Her eyes filled with tears even as he watched, and her head shook first imperceptibly, then more frantically as the panic settled in. "This isn't real. It isn't. It can't be true."

Jack didn't say anything. The world continued coming down around him, and he simply stood there and watched.

"It isn't… is it?" Her question hung in the air for a tense moment, before the General stepped in to field it.

"I understand this is difficult to take in—"

"Shut up." Samantha's tone turned hard as flint in the space of a second, and all three men froze at the sound of it. Her hands fell to her sides as she turned her gaze from the computer screen, her features a mask of hardened defense.

"Jack."

She turned to him, her eyes dark and piercing—but still vulnerable. "Is it true?"

He swallowed thickly. "Samantha…"

"Was I on that shuttle?" Her finger pointed at the screen, where the Intrepid was exploding once more in a blaze of fire. "Is… it… true?"

He could hear how much she wanted it not to be. It didn't matter that the truth, as the Air Force chose to give it, made her a hero. It didn't matter that it made her a national treasure. She didn't care about any of that. She'd just been told she was officially declared dead, that she was a dead woman walking. That the reason for her memory loss and other injuries were from a freaking shuttle crash.

Jack couldn't even begin to imagine what that would do to one's perception of things.

And now he was on the verge of losing her. If he confirmed its truth, he'd be liar. If he didn't, it would only create more confusion—and then even chaos once the Air Force removed her from his care. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't. He was losing her, even if the stress of this revelation didn't send her into a migraine and mental flush.

What made it all worse was that she'd had to hear it from two strangers. Two people she didn't even know. Suddenly, all the reasons he'd had for keeping NASA a secret seemed trivial. It should have come from him.

But it wasn't even the truth. This sick charade was a cover. A ploy.

This wasn't her heartbreak. This wasn't her death she was watching on the computer screen.

His silence was all she needed. His reluctance to answer was taken for the affirmation it was, and Samantha's features crumpled in a mixture of shock, disgust, and disbelief. Tears spilled from her eyes, her hand flying to her chest as a sob was torn from her lips.

"Oh god…." She shook her head, trying to deny it even as the truth sank in.

Jack instinctively reached for her, but she pulled away with a stuttering lurch. Her repulsion stabbed into him like a knife to the heart. Her breaths came in shorter and shorter gasps—she was hyperventilating. If they weren't careful she would work her way up to a full-blown panic attack.

"Why—? Why didn't you tell me?" she pleaded breathlessly, desperately. "How could you hide this from me?"

"It's a lot to process," Jack told her carefully, trying to keep himself calm. "I didn't know if you were ready. And you'd said you didn't want to know what had happened. That you wanted to remember on your own—"

"No! No, I didn't!" she fired back, her eyes flashing. "I never said that! Don't lie to me! Just stop lying!"

She didn't remember. Of course she wouldn't. That had been months ago. She'd had several lapses in memory since then. There's no way she could have remembered. And now he was left in the lurch, trying to salvage what was left.

But he didn't have time to do anything but react when her knees buckled and she stumbled. He caught her, and this time she didn't protest as he helped her to the couch. With his free hand he shoved the laptop away so she couldn't see the screen, and knocked Major Davis' hand away when the younger man reached to help. The officer had shot to his feet when it looked like she might go down, and his features showed nothing but concern, but Jack didn't care.

Luckily, Davis got the hint, and stood back, letting Jack do what he needed.

"I can't— I can't breathe," she sobbed, her hand clutching her chest.

"Lean forward," he told her softly. "Head between your knees." His hand guided her down, and he leaned in close, shoving the two officers from his thoughts. After a moment, her gasps for breath turned into gasping sobs, and she shook under his touch.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly, so only she could hear. "I'm so sorry…"

"Why?" she sobbed. "Why me? What—what makes me so special?"

He didn't know how to answer. He didn't even know what she meant. His hand stroked the back of her head, where she still had it resting on her knees, her eyes clenched shut.

"Why did I survive?" she whispered. "Why me? When everyone else… I don't deserve it..."

Jack blinked in confusion. He turned a sharp gaze on Davis, wondering what exactly they told her. "What?"

"No, Commander Carter—" Davis reflexively tried to set the record straight, but backed off when Jack waved him away.

"Samantha," Jack pulled her up so that she could look him in the eye. "The rest of the crew survived. They're alive."

Watery blue eyes blinked at him, even as her head shook no. "How could anyone survive that?" she demanded, pointing towards the laptop. "Those people—"

"Are alive," he reiterated firmly. His hand cupped her cheek. "They're alive."

"They survived because of you, Commander Carter," Davis spoke up. Jack and Samantha both looked at him, though Jack's focus soon returned to Samantha. "You kept the shuttle stable to give them enough time to evacuate the fuselage. You were thought to be the only casualty."

Samantha shuddered under Jack's touch, but he remained silent. When she spoke, her voice was tiny… frail. "What?"

"You remained behind on the shuttle," the Major explained. "You didn't have time to escape. The world thought you had perished by the time it hit the Atlantic."

"But—I'm not dead…"

David nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. "I know. And you didn't remember what happened."

"We hoped you would remember on your own, Commander," the General cut in. "Jack's done a good job protecting you from the public eye, but in order for you to make a full recovery, you had to know what had caused your current predicament… and how the world would react to seeing you alive and well."

Silence gripped the room for a long moment. In the end, it was Major Davis who broke it.

"You're a hero, Mission Commander Carter," he said. His voice was reverent, yet solemn. "Even before you saved the lives of your crew, you inspired millions. You put space back on the map, and the world loved you for it."

Samantha didn't respond. Jack didn't even know if she had heard the man. She stared at her knees, then finally lifted her head to glance first at Landry, then the Major. When her gaze finally turned to Jack, his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Her eyes were shuttered, closed off for the first time since she'd first woken up in the hospital. He couldn't read her, couldn't see anything but a stone wall of tempered emotion, and suddenly, she was no longer the Samantha Carter he'd come to know. She was the Colonel, the woman he'd run into outside the café that fateful afternoon, guarded and careful. Resentful.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't really blame her for resenting him. He could only pray it didn't turn into full-fledged hate.

Silently, she rose on shaky legs, brushing aside his efforts to help her. She pushed past him without a word, and then physically pushed past the General, using her shoulder to barrel through and disappear down the hall. The General remained stoic, conceding a step backwards without a word of protest.

But then, why would he? He'd gotten what he wanted.

A moment later, Jack heard the door to the master bathroom open with a squeal of sticky hinges. Then, the familiar sound of the toilet lid hitting the basin behind it. She was going to be sick, and from the sharp sound of plastic on porcelain, he'd say she'd only just made it.

A glance to Landry gave him silent permission to go after her, and he did so without hesitation. He ignored Hinds' pacing presence in the living room, and moved on to the bedroom with sure intent. He slowed once he'd closed the bathroom door behind him, making his way cautiously to the open bathroom door. He found her hunched over the toilet bowl, kneeling miserably on the tile floor.

Without a word—what could he say, really?—he moved in behind her, pulling her hair away from her face with practiced ease. Her features screwed up at his touch, as though the contact disgusted her, but a moment later she was heaving again, emptying her stomach into the waiting bowl— leaving him uncertain of where he stood.

When her stomach briefly calmed again, he rubbed a hand against her back in soothing circles. She let him do it, for a short moment, but then she pulled away, shrugging him off. He sat back on his heels, letting her set the boundaries.

"Leave me alone."

Her voice was sharp, and an instant later she seemed to realize it. Her features softened, but didn't open up. She remained hidden from him, her gaze's usual sparkle vanished without a trace.

"Please, I just—" Her croak stuttered, and she cleared her throat, wincing as she chafed her already burning throat. "I just… need a few minutes alone."

He tried to hesitate. He tried to linger, but with all familiarity gone her gaze and his own self-reproach settling heavily on his shoulders, he had no other choice but to do as she asked.

He left just as another round of heaves hit. Pausing in the doorway, he contemplated going back in, but the abject misery written in her frame told him to leave before he only added to it.

He found Landry and Davis loitering in the kitchen, hovering along the marble counter, and he bore down on them like a lion on its prey.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, not letting either of them get the first word. He stopped just short of bumping noses with Landry, stars be damned. "You drop a bomb like that on her and you don't even give me the decency of a heads up?"

"You had ample time to broach the topic with her, Jack," the General returned coolly. "The President wants to start seeing some return on the investment he's made—"

"And who the hell said she was even ready for this?" Jack countered swiftly. "She could lose everything tonight, and then what? She has to go through it all over again?"

It was Hinds who answered. "She'll have to go through it as many times as it takes for her to become Commander Samantha Carter. The President's campaign is—"

"Stop." Jack's voice was rock hard, his eyes narrowed into a razor-sharp glare. "You're telling me you're putting her through hell for a goddamn re-election? The President needs to dangle a miracle in front of the people to slip back into the White House for another term?"

All the while he stalked towards the aide, his strides heavy and menacing. Landry had rank on him, and Davis had been too good to Samantha for Jack to be pissed at him, but Hinds was the perfect victim. Loud, callous, and downright annoying, he hit all of the right nerves and didn't have stars to hide behind.

Hinds edged away nervously, before Landry pulled Jack back to his senses by placing a hand on his shoulder. Jack halted, but continued to shoot daggers at the slimeball. The appearance of an intermediary gave the aide the courage to make a belated, hollow stand.

"She's hardly being persecuted, Colonel—"

"The hell she isn't—!"

"You knew this was coming, Jack." Landry's voice cut through Jack's anger like a knife. His tone was uncharacteristically soft, devoid of the bouffant entitled persona that came with the rank. This was Hank talking now, not the General. His quiet words brought the tension down to a simmer, and pulled the volume back down as well. "This was always part of the plan."

But Jack shook his head. "No. Not like this."

Landry met his gaze. "The only thing that's changed here is your feelings for her. And I can understand that. I imagine she's just as amazing a woman in her world as she was in ours. But fact is that regardless of how you feel about her, she has a role to play. All of us do, if we want to keep our world intact."

"There's got to be another way…"

"There isn't, Jack," came the solid response. "And even if there was… do you really believe it's fair to her to keep her locked away in this house for the rest of her life? Do you think it's fair to risk bringing the world down around our ears by letting out into public without her being the Mission Commander?"

Jack paused at that. It was a concern he'd been having for some time now. But he'd always put off thinking about it too hard, knowing he wasn't ready to know whatever conclusion he would come to.

In his silence, Hind found the opportunity to cut in again, his eyes gleaming. "She certainly relies on you, Colonel. I think maybe you like being the center of her world just a little too much…"

"You sick son of a—"

"There's only one thing you need to think about, Jack," Hank interrupted, shooting Hinds a warning glance.

"Oh yeah?" he growled. "And what's that?"

"How's Charlie doing these days?"

The question was like a shot to the heart. Jack felt physically jarred, and he knew his face turned a shade of white it wasn't meant to. Landry knew it.

"Your boy's alive because of what we're doing right here, right now," Landry continued. "Just go along with it and you'll get the best of both worlds—literally. And this way you don't have to be the bad guy. We're the ones who're putting her through this. You haven't lied to her."

The blunt declaration took Jack off guard. But to his surprise, it was true, in the strictest sense of the matter. He hadn't had to say the words that trapped her in a life that wasn't her own. She'd asked him for the truth, but he hadn't been able to say anything. She'd drawn her own conclusions.

But it wasn't enough. He knew it, and when the time came, she would too.

"She might not like you right now," Landry continued, "but once things sink in she'll remember how much she trusts you. You'll get to keep your quaint little love story in the suburbs… And who knows—maybe you'll let your kid meet the famous Samantha Carter."

Jack thought about it for a long moment, wishing he could believe it would be so simple. So easy. It would be so easy to write his deception off as the innocence of an inaction. But it was so much more to it than that, and when everything was said and done, it would be his betrayal that would cut her the deepest.

"With all due respect, sir…" he started, his voice dark with condemnation that was directed more towards himself than any other man in the room. "I might not have said the words, but I'm letting her believe them."

The General's chin tilted in a guiltless shrug. "Then you better hope she doesn't ever remember the real truth. For both your sakes."

Landry turned to leave, as Hines and Davis gravitated towards the door. At the last minute, Hank turned back, leaning in close enough to issue a low warning.

"You have to be careful, Jack." Hank looked at him with an intense look that made Jack's hair stand up on the back of his neck. "You should have known better than to throw away those plans."

Jack blinked, his stomach dropping out from under him. He should've burned them. Of course they'd be searching the trash. They didn't even need a warrant to do it.

"There are folks who would be very interested in picking her brain," Landry continued, his words tight. "I think it goes without saying that the less she remembers..." His stare pointed daggers at Jack. "...the better it would be for everyone involved."

Jack swallowed around the sudden lump that had a stranglehold on his throat. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

Landry straightened. "Keep up the good work, Colonel."

The conversation was over.

The three men showed themselves out, leaving Jack to start putting together the pieces of what was left in their wake.


	22. Chapter 22

After the three men had shown themselves out, Jack was left with nothing but his thoughts. They swirled in his head, making the world tilt as heavy feet pulled towards the bedroom. Guilt was foremost, dampened only by concern for the woman he'd left sick in the bathroom. That came with its own guilt, but the need to make sure she was all right kept him moving.

When he opened the bedroom door he found that she'd left the bathroom in favor of the bed. There she lay, huddled on her side under the thickest blanket she'd been able to get her hands on. For a brief moment he hoped she might be sleeping, but then he saw the way she was shivering, even under the insulation of the fleece blanket.

She was crying, or else already in the beginning stages of shock. Either way, there was a risk that his being there might only make it worse.

But in the end, it was the dread of not doing anything at all that spurred him towards the bed, rounding the corner of it instead of climbing straight over top of it. He'd screwed up, and he had no idea if she still trusted him. Until she set her boundaries, he would not make any assumptions about where they stood.

A lump formed in his throat when he saw her staring eyes and streaming tears, which trailed across the bridge of her nose to dampen the widening, dark splotch on the pillow beneath her cheek. She was pale, and she shook faintly.

She didn't register his presence as he knelt in front of her—her eyes remained unfocused, and she didn't even flinch when his hand pressed lightly against her cheek. The only movement was the shakes that trembling that had her almost vibrating. Fear rushed through his system, jolting him from the inside out.

"Samantha…"

She didn't move, and panic inched closer. He'd gotten used to having her with him day after day, and by now their routine script was hazy at best. He didn't want to lose her… He didn't want to face the shell of those early days—a shell that would seem empty after the woman he'd come to know. Nor did he want to watch her go through this pain again, if she forgot.

"Please," he begged softly, not even sure if she could hear him. "Don't slip away like this. Just look at me, okay? Samantha… Look at me."

After a moment that felt like an eternity, blue eyes blinked, slowly coming into focus. They tracked to him, shimmering with tears. He held his breath, until he heard his name pass her lips, "Jack…"

It was soft, raspy from tears and a rebellious stomach, but even so tentative tendrils of relief started creeping in. Thank god…

"Why?" Her voice, what little was left of it, cracked even further under the strain of the single worded question. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"I—" His voice trailed off. He what? Thought he was protecting her? Was trying to save the life of his son? No, that one was the reason for a lie even worse than this one. "I never wanted to hurt you. You have to believe that."

Her eyes closed, sending fresh tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. Her gaze lifted, and her lips trembled even as she opened her mouth to speak. "Believe? How am I supposed to believe anything, when none of this makes sense?"

Her hand snaked out from under the blanket to cover her eyes.

"All this time, I've been wondering who I was… what kind of person I must have been that the only person who wanted to see me was you. You said we're friends, but there hasn't been anyone else… I couldn't understand what I might've done that would explain why no one was looking for me."

Jack swallowed thickly. He hadn't known she'd been thinking about it. She'd never mentioned it, not once.

"I didn't ask because I was afraid of what the answer might be. And I liked who I was when I was with you. I thought—I must not be so horrible if you could like me, and…" Her voice caught in her throat. "And that was enough.

"But now I know the truth—and I wish I didn't." Tears trailed across the bridge of her nose. "Because I don't understand how the truth could feel so wrong. It's wrong. I don't—"

Her hand snaked out from under the blanket to cover her eyes, hiding her quivering lips. "None of this makes any sense…"

Jack shifted closer to the bed, wrapping his arm around her in an awkward reach. She leaned into him, burrowing her head against the side of his neck. For a fleeting moment, the world was right, but it shattered again when she pushed him away.

Her eyes were shrouded by tears and mistrust, almost glassy as she shakily got to her feet. Brushing off his attempts to steady her, she padded heavily to the bathroom, her limp exaggerated by her distraction.

"Samantha, please, wait—"

The bathroom door closed behind her before he could reach her. His attempt to follow ended with him nose to nose with the bathroom door, bracing himself against the doorjamb. His arms shook, but not from exertion. He felt like his chest was going to explode. But what right did he have to be angry?

He closed his eyes so, unable to stare at the suddenly tangible barrier between them.

"Look, I'm sorry!" he called through the door. "Please, just talk to me!"

For a long moment, he didn't hear anything from the other side of the door. He almost expected to hear the shower to turn on, for her to drown him out with more noise. But when he didn't, he strained to hear anything. But what he did hear only settled his guilt more heavily on his shoulders.

She was crying. Again. Not the heavy, panicked sobs from before. There was no gasps for breath, no heart-rending moans. Somehow, the soft, barely-there sniffling trailing faintly through the door was far, far worse.

The sounds were so faint he could barely hear them, but still his eyes burned. He sucked long, deep breaths through the vise in his throat, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

He tried to turn the knob, for once unable to respect the boundary she had put up between them—but it refused to give under his hand. It was locked.

In the end, he found himself leaning against the door frame, his fingers buried in his hair as he stared mindlessly at the carpet. All he could think about was the sounds issuing from the far side of the door, and the chill that was slowly creeping into his bones.

She was right—this was all wrong.

A voice in the back of his mind tried to explain himself—he didn't have a choice, he was protecting Charlie, it was for her own good… But those sounded just as hollow as the cover story. And with that realization came the guilt: he was just as bad as they were.

Because he still wasn't about to tell her the real truth.

How could he, when he didn't even really understand it himself? Alternate timelines and aliens hell-bent on destroying the planet… It was insane. She'd never believe him, and even if she did, what could they do about it? The minute she remembered the true truth, her freedom would be forfeit, and he'd be a monster for allowing her to condemn herself so unwittingly.

He didn't know how long he sat there. He didn't know how long she stayed in the bathroom. All he knew was that one instant he was alone, and the next she was there beside him, sitting against the opposite doorjamb. He must have fallen asleep, he knew, but he didn't really care. She was there—with swollen red eyes that stared at the far wall, but there all the same.

It was a start.

For a long moment, he didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything at all.

Her hands lay limp in her lap, and the only movement was the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She was eerily still, and Jack was unbelievably relieved when she finally blinked, and turned towards his wary gaze.

"I don't want to remember this," she said, her voice soft. "I… I liked what we had. But this… this changes everything, doesn't it."

He didn't answer, and that was enough for her. Her lips curled into an empty, mirthless smirk.

"I just realized something, today… About all of this."

Jack's brow rose, prompting her to continue without risking saying anything that could be construed as an interruption. She was talking, and he wanted to keep it that way.

"It doesn't really matter what I want, does it? I could wake up tomorrow and not remember a thing. And what then? "

Jack swallowed. He'd been asking himself that same question. And no matter how he tried to word it, it was still the same answer.

"You would just tell me all over again, wouldn't you? I don't even know if this is the first time you've told me…"

"It is—" Jack was quick to reassure her, but she was just as swift in her dismissal.

"I don't care," she delivered sharply. "I don't care, because I don't want to know. I don't want to be a woman who's been dead. I—" Her voice caught. "I don't want to be a hero…"

"Samantha…"

"I don't hate you," she pressed onwards. Her words said one thing, but her tone made him wonder. "But I'm not exactly me, am I? I'm whoever you want me to be. Whoever the Air Force wants me to be. And I'll believe you, because I don't have the presence of mind to know any different."

She finally turned to him, and her eyes were void of their familiar spark.

"I don't think I can be okay with that."

She fell silent then, her piece said. Jack tried to think of something, anything to say. He couldn't find anything that would reassure her. She was right. Her mental flushes put her at too steep a disadvantage. It was a miracle she had trusted him all.

"I'm tired," she said after a long moment had passed. Her voice was dull, leaden with exhaustion. "I'm going to wash up, and when I come out, I'm going to bed."

She swallowed thickly. "I don't want to see you again tonight."

And with that she got to her feet and disappeared back into the bathroom. She didn't wait for his answer, or give him a chance to speak— not that it would have mattered much anyway. But it cut deeper than he could have thought possible.

He obeyed. Slowly, reluctantly, searching for a reason to remain. But he couldn't. He had nothing. He left, and he closed the door behind him, with enough force for her to hear it from the bathroom. So she would know he had honored her request. So she would know it was safe to come out.

He couldn't help but wonder how it had come to her needing to be safe from him.


	23. Chapter 23

"Hey."

Jack looked up to where Samantha stood in the doorway. Her bad arm rested in its sling, while her good hand was tucked casually into the front pocket of her jeans, with her coat hanging over her forearm. She was the picture of ease, save for the slightly hooded look to her eyes, which lacked their usual sparkle—a sparkle he hadn't seen since that morning.

It'd been almost four days since the fallout, and she'd barely said three words to him since. So her approach today had him at a surprised disadvantage. This was the first time she'd sought him out.

"Yeah?" he answered, unable to completely hide his wariness. Or his hope that this might start mending things between them. The fact she looked ready to leave the house only made him curious.

"We need some stuff from the store. I'm going to pick up a few things. Wanna come?" She'd never been to the supermarket before. She'd never left the cul-de-sac except to go to her check-ups and rehab at the hospital. Jack didn't even know if she knew where the store was.

Jack blinked. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he said carefully. "Landry wanted us to stay put for a few more days…"

"Because they have some big reveal planned?" she countered snidely, her tone clearly demonstrating what she thought about the upcoming press conference. "I don't give a rat's ass what Landry wants. Now that I know why I was allowed to become a hermit here, I don't see any point in putting off the inevitable any longer."

She straightened, squaring her shoulders. "I'm going to the store. Come if you want."

And with that, she turned and headed down the hall. Jack hesitated for only a second before he scrambled for his coat and trotted out after her. The olive branch offered was short and covered with thorns, but it was a truce nonetheless. He'd take it.

By the time he caught up with her, she was already sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, her eyes on the dash and her features solemn. He climbed into the driver's seat with deliberate movements, and once settled, he simply sat there. Silence reigned for a long minute, and he waited for her to break it. Whether it be to tell him to start driving, or to change her mind about going, he wanted her to say something.

He hoped it would be the latter. Going to the store was a brash decision, one made more out of pure petulance than any real need for groceries. He hoped she would realize that before they actually got there. But he would follow her lead on this one. Even if it ended up biting him in the ass later.

He heard her take a deep breath and turned to look at her. She'd turned towards him, though her gaze remained unfocused, looking elsewhere. Nervous, distracted—evasive.

"Was any of it real?"

Her voice was low, a murmur. She was reluctant, as if she were afraid of the answer.

"What—"

"Before… Us, what we had. Was any of it real? Or was it just an act? Manipulation? To get me to trust you?"

She didn't finish, and he was glad she didn't. He turned in his seat, drawing her gaze to him. He forced himself to look past the tears swimming in her eyes.

"Samantha, I've been looking after you since you were in the hospital. You don't remember it, and you can choose to believe me or not—but trust me when I say it hasn't exactly been a walk in the park."

He felt a small spark of triumph when shock darted across her features.

"There have been days where you don't know who I am, when you've seen me as an enemy. You've been difficult, stubborn, and every breed of ornery from here to Timbuktu, but I still stuck around. Because in spite of all that, most days you still trusted me—even if you didn't know my name or how you knew me. And I kept coming back for more because I can't imagine being anywhere else. With anyone else."

Tears trailed down her cheek as she slowly blinked, her jaw tight with emotion. He barreled onwards though, knowing if he stopped he might never start again.

"You can request to have someone else look after you, if you still can't feel like you can trust me now. That's your prerogative. But I can assure you that no one else who takes the job will care more for you than I do. My first and foremost priority has always been you—anything I might have done for the Air Force has been either coincidence or an effort to ensure they didn't replace me with someone less personally involved."

"But—"

"No buts. That's all there is too it. I care about you, a lot more than I should, but that's the truth. Trust me or not, but I know you know that much is true."

For a long moment, she stared at him, her chin trembling. She managed to keep herself mostly calm though, swallowing most of her tears and attacking the few that escaped with the heel of her hand. Finally, she nodded in acceptance—or maybe just in indication that she'd heard him. He was far beyond the point of assuming anything.

He sat back in his seat, watching her until it looked like she'd be all right. "Still wanna go to the store?" he asked.

Her head shook no, sending a wave of relief pouring through him. She still looked slightly out of it, but she was coherent enough. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Don't be. I think we both needed to get out the house for a while."

She didn't answer, but the look she gave the house told him that she'd come to the same conclusion. And that she wasn't ready to go back in yet.

"You know… why don't we go for a walk?" Blue eyes flashed to his, surprised by the offer. He offered a small grin. "Come on, we'll compromise. We'll go for a walk outside the cul-de-sac. See what else is out there."

There was a risk they might run into other walkers or joggers, people who might recognize her—but it was a much better plan than going to the store. And it was good day for a walk, anyway.

To his relief, she nodded. The small smile of gratitude was more expressive than she intended, he though, and he felt warmer for it. She was still wary of him, not quite trusting him or herself, but a walk would be a step in the right direction.

"Let's go."

Later that night, after a long—thankfully uneventful—walk, after they'd shared a pizza and gone to bed, Jack was awoken by the sound of soft steps trailing from his bedroom door. He recognized the sounds immediately, and their owner, leaving him ready and waiting by the time the bed finally dipped as she sat lightly on the edge of the mattress next to him.

"Jack?"

His name came as a whisper, small and tentative.

"Yeah?" He didn't bother to make his voice sound groggier than it was. So what if it meant he'd barely been sleeping anyway? His thoughts had been on her anyway, and whether she might ever really see him the same way again.

She hesitated for just a moment before she answered, still whispering the dark. "It still feels wrong… I don't feel like a Mission Commander, and I don't know if I ever will… I don't like it, and I don't like not having a choice about it…"

She paused and he waited with bated breath. This was it.

"It doesn't make sense… but neither does throwing away the one thing that feels right."

Jack blinked, staring at her silhouette in the dark, uncertain whether he was hearing her right. She continued.

"Even if I never believe I'm a hero… I choose to believe in you." She took a tentative breath. "If you'll stay."

Jack released the breath he'd been holding. "Yeah. I'll stay."

Her shadowy head bobbed. "Okay."

"Okay."

Silence hung in the air between them. Then, her throat cleared. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

The mattress shifted under him as she got to her feet. He watched her cross the room, but just before she passed through the door, he called after her. "Samantha."

She paused, and her head turned towards him, waiting.

Thank you. You won't regret this. I'll make it up to you.

Nothing that would even come close to being enough.

"G'night."

Definitely not what he'd wanted to say. But she seemed to know that, if the smile in her voice was anything to go by.

"Good night, Jack."

Her tone was warm, and a moment later she'd closed the door behind her, promising a good morning when the sun rose. Maybe not perfect, but better than yesterday. A step towards normal.

But somehow, when he turned over to go back to sleep… he only felt worse than he did before.


	24. Chapter 24

Jack tugged on the stiff blouse, pulling it straight and smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles. He ran an appreciative eye down her figure.

"You look totally hot."

Blue eyes blinked out their unfocused reverie. "Excuse me?"

He grinned impishly. "Just making you were paying attention," he returned lightly. When her eyes rolled with long-suffering patience, his grin broadened. "But it's true."

"It's the uniform."

"Not likely." He gave her a knowing look. "Trust me—not everyone can pull off that skirt."

Samantha's brow lifted. "Oh, really…"

"Yep. And let me tell you, you wear it very well."

Her lips curled into a sly smile, and she reached up to adjust his tie for him. "You know, keep that up and maybe tonight you can show me just how well I wear it."

"Well, you know… that would probably lead to you not wearing it…"

"I'm okay with that."

"Yeah, but—" He blinked. "What?"

They'd had this kind of banter back and forth before… but—well, something usually happened to distract them. More often than not it was her migraines or some other ache or pain, but sometimes it was him too.

It scared the hell out of him, the idea of crossing that line. Because once he crossed it, there would be no going back.

Oh, who was he kidding? He was already long-gone lost for her.

"Well, let's just say that looking forward to something like that might make this a little less terrifying."

He conceded the point with a nonchalant shrug. "Glad to be of service, ma'am."

Her smile lasted for a moment longer, but then her features settled into a somber mask once more. She was nervous. Anxious.

Scared.

The past week had been trying for them both, plagued with newspapers announcing Samantha's recovery, and the sudden pressure to make an appearance. The world had been unwilling to accept the truth of the story until they were able to see for themselves that the Mission Commander was alive and well. The feds had jumped on that idea like white on rice.

Hence the reason he and Samantha both were clad in their Air Force dress blues, on the precipice of a press conference that would change the course of history. Samantha had refused to look beyond the blue curtain that separated the backstage area from the audience, but Jack had peeked. He had peeked and seen the National Mall filled to the seams with people—press and private citizens both.

All of them eager to get a glimpse of a woman presumed dead.

Even now, the sound of them all talking and shouting amongst themselves traveled to where they stood, no doubt the cause of Samantha's anxiety. It was daunting, and he wasn't the one due to give a speech in front of millions of people.

"Hey." His hand cupped the side of her neck, his fingertips brushing the curve of her twisted updo, keeping her hair above the edge of her collar. She really did wear the uniform well.

If he'd had any doubts as to her truly being military before, they were now erased. The way her shoulders squared under the epaulets, the way she held her head high—she was definitely military. And if he had to guess by her bearing, she was a damn fine officer.

"Let's do this," he said.

He'd agreed to stand with her on the stage, even if it was only to act as moral support. And he was ready to do it, despite his own reluctance to be put on display. For her, he would do it.

"Actually…" Samantha's tone was suddenly hesitant. "I changed my mind."

Jack winced inwardly. "Samantha, we can't postpone this thing. You know that—"

"That's not what I meant," she returned. "I mean… I changed my mind about you coming on stage with me."

He blinked. "Oh." Did he really sound that disappointed? He wasn't hurt by the brush-off… not a bit. "I see…"

"It's not that I don't want you there," she explained. "I do. But—you think Charlie is going to be watching?"

"Yeah, of course he is. Why?"

She took a deep breath. "For the past… however many months, I have been this big, dark secret in your life. All this time you've been spending with me has been this hazy assignment, if that. You've sacrificed a lot to be with me."

"Yeah?" So?

"So, I don't think this should be the way people find out your secret is that you've been taking care of me. Your family, your son… they deserve a lot more than this circus." She waved to the hubbub surging around them.

They were technically not on stage yet, but everyone was hustling and bustling, trying to get everything ready to go. It was set to be extravagant and a big bright spot on the political tally sheet. She was right—the news should be broken more gently than this. Especially to his family. It was personal now.

"I thought if I went up there alone, then no one would have to know your involvement in all of this. You could wait and tell them more appropriately. Maybe if they get a chance to get used to me being around, they won't mind so much that you helped keep the secret so long…"

Jack recognized the logic in her words, but still he hesitated. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, her features solemn. "Yes. I am."

He took a deep breath. "All right. That's cool…" He winked at her. "You really don't need me anyway."

She opened her mouth to issue a protest, but he lifted his hand to head her off.

"You're gonna nail this," he told her. He let his hand brush against her cheek, before drawing back to square his shoulders against a new responsibility. "I'll watch on the monitors back here."

Her features softened, and her eyes warmed. She nodded.

"But you do know this means I got dressed in this monkey suit for no reason," he ribbed lightly.

This time, it was her turn to smirk. "Well, then I guess we'll have to get it off you as soon as we get home, huh?"

"I'm okay with that," he teased, echoing her earlier words. Her smirk turned downright devilish, just as a lackey snuck up on them from the side.

"We're live in ten. Ma'am, I'm going to need you to get into place now."

And just like that, the humor disappeared. The vixen was replaced by a dead woman walking, and her eyes darkened with reminded responsibility.

Jack tapped her chin, urging her to look up at him. "You're gonna rock this," he assured her. "They'll love you."

Her gaze told him she didn't quite believe him. But she was a good sport about it anyway.

"Yeah, sure… you betcha," she said with false optimism.

"Ma'am, you need to be—" The lackey tried to butt in again, but Jack cut him off.

"She's coming. Just give it a minute, will you?" He met her gaze once more. "Go get 'em," he urged.

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Look sharp, Major. Don't let 'em walk all over you. Stand your ground."

Her brows rose even as she turned to follow the lackey up onto the rearmost section of the stage, where she would wait until they were ready for her to walk on. "You giving me pointers on how to deal with the press now, Jack? Don't you know your job is to stand there and look pretty?"

The last was thrown over her shoulder, cocky and good-natured.

Jack grinned. "Only in public," he quipped lightly. "Since I'm not going onstage, it's open season!"

She didn't have time to answer before she'd disappeared behind the curtain. Jack moved to the closest monitor to watch, and the musical fanfare was piped in as a Presidential spokesperson or other appeared to introduce the head honcho himself.

The crowd cheered, and Jack felt his gut jump into warp speed. It was now or never. No going back.

There was only one thing he could say to that.

Watch out, world.


	25. Chapter 25

Daniel never liked waiting. He particularly didn't like it now, when it was significantly more difficult pace his anxiety away. On his coffee table, the newspaper that had plastered the newsstands lay wrinkled and disheveled, read so many times it was starting to tear.

Sam's picture stared back at him, but it wasn't the Sam he knew. It was Mission Commander Carter. The picture was iconic—an image of a beaming woman in an orange spacesuit. But it wasn't the picture that bothered him. It was the article within that turned his stomach.

He knew what the words said. But he knew they were so much bullshit. The Mission Commander wasn't alive. No way. Which meant that it was Sam they were talking about—Sam who was going to be debuted today, speaking for the first time since she'd been found on some remote island.

Daniel almost scoffed at the story they'd concocted. He would have outright laughed, were it not for the fact it meant that somehow they had gotten Sam to go along with it.

Was it blackmail? Had they threatened her using him and Mitchell as leverage? Somehow coerced her into taking the role of the Mission Commander, just to keep them safe? It was the only reason he could think of. Because the Sam he knew would never agree to this.

She would never compromise who she was, no matter the inconvenience of a government-issued identity. And she would never, never trod on the memory of a hero to fit an agenda. Not even if it meant it gave her a way to change the timeline back.

She just wouldn't.

His gaze was drawn to the screen by a loud fanfare of music—pretentious. Someone introduced the President—overkill. No one cared about the President. They were waiting for Sam.

The members of the Intrepid crew were introduced, and as the audience clapped they lined up center stage, behind the podium. All six of them were crew members saved by Mission Commander Samantha Carter.

They were all male, save for a single woman, lined up along the center of the stage. They waved at the crowd like the seasoned public figures they were, with broad smiles and gleaming eyes. They didn't seem nervous or at all tense, which meant that they must have already been reacquainted with Sam. Or else they were all in on it too.

Daniel wasn't sure which to believe.

But when Sam's name was issued with much pomp and circumstance, he leaned forward in his seat all the same. And then his heart was jolted into overdrive when he saw his friend step out onto the stage.

Part of him had held out hope that it really wasn't her. That they'd pulled some other blonde off the street to play the part. Or that they really wouldn't actually show her in person.

But it was her. Even before they zoomed in on her features, he knew. He'd spent over a decade learning how she moved, how she walked, how she carried herself. He could tell her hair was longer than he'd last seen it, even when it was done up like it was, and she looked sharp in her Air Force blues.

But it wasn't her dress uniform. Hers bore full-birds, a proud rank well deserved.

On the screen, he could spy small golden oak leaves glinting on her shoulders. The Mission Commander had been a Major, a rate that had played back-seat to her title as Mission Commander.

As the camera moved in, he noticed a hitch in her gait that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen her. She—was she limping? But before he could be sure she stopped at the podium, the solid wooden stand hiding her lower body from view as the screen narrowed to her features.

The crowd present—which he would've joined, if not for the not-so-subtle agent he'd seen tailing him the week before—fell absolutely silent as familiar lips parted, and took a breath to speak.

But nothing came out. Her lips parted again, before she seemed to think better of it. Her gaze was focused somewhere below the camera, most likely looking to the teleprompter, but a moment later her gaze shifted to the camera itself.

For a single, brief moment, it looked like she was about to issue a message to him—to Daniel— directly.

He waited with bated breath for her to speak, and he imagined that every other person watching was doing the same.

"Good afternoon."

Her voice was tinny, a combination of the microphone and the speakers in his television, but it sent a rush of relief down Daniel's spine. It'd been too long since he'd last heard it. Almost a year now… The ache of not seeing her—after living with her, surviving with her, for so long—was a constant companion, one making itself known with acute intensity as she continued to speak.

"I was given a speech to read here today," she said, pointedly not returning her gaze to the prompter. "But I can't bring myself to utter words that aren't my own, when all of you here today, and everyone watching at home, has taken the time out of their day to hear me speak."

She paused, and Daniel waited for the crowd's response. There wasn't one. Clearly, they weren't sure what to make of this clear departure from the script.

Daniel could see she was nervous, but there was also something… off about her. Something was different.

"As you all know," Sam continued, her voice gaining strength as she soldiered on, "my name is Samantha Carter. And as you also already know by now, I was presumed dead when the Intrepid shuttle crashed over the Atlantic."

Daniel knew all that. He'd looked up everything he could on the woman, as had the rest of the nation when the headlines had hit four days ago. He read the publicized report on what they think went wrong with the shuttle, saw footage of the ceremony in the Rose Garden that was held to honor her memory.

Landry had been right in the hangar—Samantha Carter was a remarkable person, no matter what timeline she was in. He wouldn't deny he was a little bit jealous, when in every alternate universe he'd run into his counterpart was either dead or faded into obscurity. But the difference was that he'd never been forced to be something he wasn't.

"I don't know what happened on that shuttle. I don't know how I survived."

The delivery was blunt. Honest. Of course it was. How could she know what happened on the shuttle? Sam wasn't there.

"Six weeks ago, I didn't even know who I was."

Daniel froze. What?

"Six weeks ago, I woke up with no memory of where I was, or even what my name was. It's only been in the time since that I've come to learn everything that you know. That I am Samantha Carter, an astronaut the world thought was dead because I stayed on a burning shuttle to save the life of my crew. That I survived because I had the luck to wash ashore on a remote island in the Caribbean, where I was cared for by the natives."

On the screen, her lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. "And yes, it sounds like a cheesy B-movie plot to me too."

This earned her a tittering laugh. The few audience members who could be seen in the frame were slowly relaxing, becoming comfortable with woman whose life and story had become legend. Daniel was used to it. She'd always been personable, the softest edge of SG-1… softest not because she was weaker, or more vulnerable, but because she had a smile that could charm a horde and the sense to wield it.

"The residents of this small village didn't have a clue who I was, but they cared for me anyway while I remained comatose for over a year. It's only in the past few months that I came out of it—only to face multiple lapses in memory."

She paused to take a breath, and the silence in the meantime vibrated with hushed murmurs as the audience began to grow restless. They'd already been told this, at least about the bizarre island rescue, and they were satisfies with the story. But the news about the memory loss was new.

On screen, Sam let the chatter continue for a brief moment before continuing on.

"I still suffer these lapses. They've grown fewer and farther apart, but every morning I wake up with my memory intact is a blessing, because I still remember the day I didn't have anything."

She paused to take a breath, her voice gaining strength as she pressed onwards.

"I see that quite a few members of the press are here today. I know you have questions—but I can't answer them. Everything I know is already public knowledge; I can't give you anything you don't already know. And so instead I ask a favor… from all of you."

Daniel searched Sam's features, looking for any hint of duplicity. He couldn't find anything. By all appearances, she was being truthful, and the rest of the audience had picked up on that. The camera panned across the sea of faces, the adulation was now mixed with a healthy dose of empathy.

She had connected with them, in a way only Samantha Carter could.

"The favor I ask of you is that as we move forward, you respect those I knew before the accident. My crew, my friends… They don't know anything more than you do, and it's not fair for them to be hounded for information. And at this point, I think all of you know more about me than I do… so it'd be pointless trying to get a scoop out of me."

The crowd laughed again, and the reporters lining the stage had the decency to look a little sheepish. They backed off, settling back into their seats as they realized they wouldn't be getting their questions answered today. A few still seemed eager, but knew better than to push too hard just yet. It'd be too easy for them to fall into the role of the villain, when up against the Mission Commander.

"These next few weeks are going to be difficult for everyone," Sam declared. She'd found her stride, and her confidence seemed to pour from her in waves.

"Difficult for all of you, in trying to make sense of all of this… and for me, as I come to terms with who I am—with who you expect me to be. Mission Commander Carter left some very big shoes to fill. I only hope that I will live up to everybody's expectations."

The audience remained silent as she turned to look at her crew, shifting the nation's attention to them. But when she spoke, she spoke to them, not to the audience.

"I am so very grateful that each and every one of you is safe… alive. Whatever sacrifice was made has been worth it, to see you standing here with me— with all of us— here today. I may not recognize your faces, but it means the world to me to know that you all came out here to support me. Thank you."

Her lips curled into a smile, and after a moment, they managed to nod back at her through their shock as the crowd cheered. Those watching may not have been a part of that insular unit, but her display of solidarity struck a chord in them.

They were impressed. They loved her.

Yeah, she'd obviously deviated from what shmoozy script the feds might have written for her. But if they'd been looking for total adoration, they now had it in spades.

Her honesty had made her vulnerable—and thereby relatable. The crowd, and anyone watching at home like he was, looked at her and saw the woman they'd mourned, the woman whose career they'd followed with bated breath—and found her suddenly within their reach.

She was no longer lofty, suddenly no more special than anyone else trying to find stability in their lives.

And when her hand lifted for silence, it came quickly, proving just how closely they were hanging onto every word. How eager they were for her to continue.

"So please… be respectful of my friends, their families, and their privacy. They've earned that much."

A quiet audience answered her, and that was enough to know that they had heard. No doubt every American watching from their TV sets at home were sitting just as silently. Daniel certainly felt that same awe, struck dumb by the emotional plea.

"That's all I have to say right now. I'm sure this won't be the last you see of me, but thank you… for your support, and for coming here to welcome me home."

It was a long moment before anyone moved a muscle. Then somewhere, someone began to clap, slow and deliberate. Others joined in, and in record time the crowd was roaring in approval. Sam stared for a long moment, then issued a small, tight smile—one that did reach her eyes.

It wasn't a full smile, and it wasn't a smile Daniel had ever seen Sam give before.

Daniel sat back as the camera panned out, giving a wide view of the stage as Sam stepped back from the podium and turned to leave. Her blonde head bobbed as she nodded to the other astronauts, who nodded back in tangible reverence.

Did they not notice that this woman wasn't the woman who'd saved their lives? Were they all in on the conspiracy? Daniel couldn't wrap his head around it.

Something wasn't right.

He needed to talk to Cam. And together, they had to talk to Sam. They had to find out what was going on. Something was wrong.

That afternoon, he traveled across the county, losing his tail somewhere in the bowels of Los Angeles. He found an internet café and logged into the one movie-fan forum their timelines had in common.

It had been Sam's idea, to communicate this way. It was through this site that they'd managed to keep tabs on each other—let the others know where they were. The contact was always brief, and only ever made when one of them moved. Sam had used it the most… They'd moved her around, presumably to keep her from being recognized.

Last she'd posted, a vague one-liner about "Alaska"—a movie Teal'c had made them watch one team night, determined to know more about the wildlife on Earth. Daniel didn't even know if it existed in this timeline, but he knew that the protagonist had been a young polar bear. A cub.

That meant she'd either been headed to or already settled in Chicago. Home of the Cubs.

Sure, there were flaws in the interpretation, and anyone else might be doubtful. But Daniel wasn't. Not after more than a decade of knowing each other well enough to complete each other's sentences.

Assuming his doctor_ocular handle, he clicked himself into the one thread they would always be looking at: The Twilight Zone. Once there, he typed out a one-liner of his own.

Weekend at Bernie's, Chicago-style.

Soon, he knew, Shft would log in and see it. And then they would meet in the busiest airport in the city. They wouldn't fly, not with every beyond-top-secret watch list in the nation on the lookout for them, but it would be busy, crowded, and anonymous.

And from there, if Sam didn't show, they would find her.

Then, they would find out the truth.


	26. Chapter 26

Jack entered the house and instantly moaned as his mouth watered at the warm aroma that washed over him.

Cookies. Chocolate chip, if he wasn't mistaken. And damn they smelled good. Buttery and sweet and filled with the love of whomever made them.

Okay, so he was improvising the last part. But he figured it was true of any meal or dessert she didn't burn or undercook beyond recognition.

He crossed the room in a matter of strides, eager to reach the kitchen before she scooped the last of the batter onto the baking sheet. He poked his head around the corner of the kitchen, and found her just taking the latest batch out of the oven. He wiped the grin from his face—fully intending to lead her on a bit—and stepped solemnly into view as she turned to slide the cookies onto the cooling rack.

"Samantha…"

Blue eyes looked up at his appearance, at first in surprise, but then she froze. She paled suddenly, disturbingly so, and her face screwed up a little bit—like she was confused. But then her eyes widened, and she let out a gasp that sounded like the wind had been knocked from her chest. Tears filled her eyes as the cookie pan clattered to the counter.

"Oh, god…" Her voice was breathless.

"Samantha?" All pretense was now gone—concern that edged into desperation gripped him by the gut and refused to let go.

"What happened?" she blurted. "Charlie. Is Charlie okay?"

Jack blinked. He'd been out to the store to get something for the much-anticipated dinner—when his son would finally meet the woman he'd not-so-subtly given advice on not too long ago—and had called Charlie on the way to make sure he was still coming. But Charlie had been fine. He didn't even remember telling her he was going to call him.

"Charlie's fine," he answered quickly. But she coughed out a sob, her breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. "Samantha, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, gulping down a lungful of air. "I don't know, I just—"

Her words dissolved into a cry of pain as her legs almost buckled, a quick slam of her hand on the counter the only thing that kept her from collapsing completely. Her other hand flew to her temple, where it ground itself into her brow. "Jack—!"

"Samantha!" He was already there at her side, one hand on her shoulder and one at the small of her back, ready to catch if she went down again. "Samantha… what…"

What was this? A migraine? She hadn't had one in almost a week, but she'd never had one so violent. A seizure? A panic attack? He didn't know. All he knew was that it was scaring the crap out of him.

"Jack, is Charlie okay?" Her voice was quiet now, but still breathless. "Is he—?"

"Dammit he's fine," Jack ground out. "Samantha…"

A flash of red caught his eye just as her knees buckled for good, and he carefully lowered her to the hardwood floor of the kitchen right there. He cradled her in his arms, and stared at the bold line of blood that trailed from her nose.

A nosebleed. The migraine caused a nosebleed? This had never happened.

Blue eyes fluttered, and her hands moved sluggishly as they clutched at his shirt.

"Dead…?" Her voice was barely audible, but he'd know that word anywhere.

He shook his head. "No…" He pulled out his cell phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"Oh, god… she's dead..."

"Samantha, please, you gotta stay awake. Stay with me, please…"

"Car accident… Charlie…?"

Jack shook her slightly. "Charlie's fine! He's fine, all right? Just stay with me. The ambulance is coming—"

It would be. Someone just had to answer.

But she'd already gone limp in his arms, eyes shut and skin ashen save for the blood trailing over her lip. He cursed as he fumbled for a paper towel from the counter, even as someone finally came over the line. He explained what had happened, no doubt sounding as desperate and terrified as he felt. When someone assured him a bus was on the way, he hung up.

He didn't know what to do. So he did all he could

He sat there with Samantha in his lap, and held onto her for dear life.


	27. Chapter 27

The airport was just as busy as Daniel had predicted it would be. It was loud, crowded, and filled to the brim with anxious passengers, both disembarking and prospective flyers. But the sight of Sam's face staring out from every television in the place turned his stomach.

Some of it was footage of the press conference—which he had memorized by now, as did half of the American population—and some of it was photos of the real Mission Commander, casual poses of her personal life and formal portraits of her stints in the military and NASA. All striking reminders that while Samantha was the every-woman, the astronaut Americans loved to love, but was distinctly different from the real Sam.

Sam rarely took pictures. She liked having them around, of her family, her friends. But she didn't like being the focus of them. The Mission Commander was a PR darling… their Sam couldn't stand it.

"Daniel!"

A familiar shout caught his attention, and he turned to see Cam dodging people and baggage to close the distance between them. His excitement was tangible, though when he got nearer he slowed to a stop before he was in reaching distance.

"Hi."

It was understated, the very least of what either of them wanted to say.

Daniel jerked his chin up in reciprocal greeting. "Hi."

Cam tucked his hands into his pockets. His feet shuffled in place awkwardly. "How's the leg?"

Daniel dipped his head to look at it. "Oh, you know…" He looked back up to Cam. "Fake."

A smirk crossed Cam's features for a brief moment before his features fell into a solemn mask. "She's not here, is she?"

Daniel tilted his head grimly. "No." He sighed. "And I've been here for three hours."

Cam nodded, his shoulders shrugged. "Well, I guess it'd be a little difficult for her to get here, what with all the…" His voice trailed off, and he bobbed his chin towards the nearest screen.

A broad Sam smile grinned back at them.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Finally, Cam bit back a sigh and shrugged. "So, I guess we go find her."

Daniel nodded. "Yeah. We do."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glowing map of the city—suddenly, it seemed a lot bigger than Los Angeles.

"Problem is… where do we start?"

Six hundred miles away, a room stood as motionless as the airport was hectic. It was dark, shrouded in mystery and shadows, and sparsely decorated. It was a room for business, and nothing else. Dark figures sat at a rounded table, their features obscured by blurring shadow and sharp planes of light.

They sat in heavy silence for several moments, before the door opened to admit one last faceless figure.

"Samantha Carter has been rerouted to the facility," a voice reported, approaching the silent table but not sitting. The voice was not overly deep, not overbearing, nor distinctive in any way. If not for the ambiance of the foreboding room, it could have belonged to any other man. "The paramedics have been dealt with. They will not disclose her location or her condition."

"And what is her condition?" The voice that issued the query was grave, but neutral. The voice of unspoken burden.

"Stable. Dr. Mackenzie has done several scans, and has noticed increased brain activity."

"What is his interpretation?"

There was a moment of silence as the subordinate hesitated. But he could not fail to answer.

"She's remembering."

A long silence passed as the room fell silent. No sound filtered in through the door, and none was generated within. They were all listening, waiting.

"How much?"

The subordinate silhouette tilted its head. "Unknown. She has yet to regain consciousness."

All focused turned to the central shadow. The air was heavy with expectation, thick with dispassionate anticipation.

There was a whisper as the speaker pulled in a solemn breath. "You know what to do."

"Yes, sir."

"Make it happen."

"Yes, sir."

And that was all that was said. One shadow left the room, while the other, more somber voice settled back into its wing-back chair. The decision was made, and all any of them could do was wait.


	28. Chapter 28

Jack sat at the side of the hospital bed, trying to banish the memories flashing in front of his eyes; she hadn't been in a horrific car accident, not this time.

She was merely unconscious, not comatose. That was what the doctors had told him, anyway. What he'd seen of them, that is. For the last few hours, he'd seen no one but nurses and techs.

Some were familiar, from their extended stay before. They were kind and sympathetic, reassuring him that she'd been through worse—there was nothing to worry about. But there were others who were new, who stared more than they spoke. She was still a novelty to them.

Even now, he could see the expressions of the paramedics when they'd shown up, their eyes bouncing between him and her in disbelief for a brief instant before they'd gotten to work. They'd recovered well, he had to give them that. Later, he would worry that now they knew their location, where they lived. For now, he worried only about her.

The only relief of the afternoon had come when he'd called his son, desperately needing to check in on him once Samantha had been rolled away for scans and tests. The second he'd heard his son's voice he'd gained some degree of ease, relaxing the knot of anxiety that had been twisting his gut since Samantha's insistence that he was hurt. But even then he had barely retained the presence of mind to let him know that dinner had to be rescheduled. He couldn't say anything else, but his son had understood, despite his concerned confusion.

There would be no family dinner tonight.

A rustle of movement from the bed above him had him raising his head quick enough to give him whiplash, but it was worth it when he saw her eyes flicker open.

"Samantha?" His voice was hoarse, as haggard as he felt, and her eyes tracked to his briefly before they closed against the bright light of the window behind him. The blinds were already drawn shut, but it wasn't enough to keep shafts of light from spilling across her bed. It was not as migraine-friendly as they'd made her room to be.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, allowing his shadow to fall over her features. It was the only comfort he could offer. "Samantha? Can you hear me?"

A wordless mumble answered him as her head tilted towards him.

"Samantha, please, say something—anything…"

Her eyes opened once more, turning to mere slits even in his shadow. But he could already see that she was still there. "Wha… What happened?"

The words were slurred, her voice husky and low, but it was music to his ears. "I don't know. A migraine, I think. A bad one." His hand covered hers. "What do you remember?"

She blinked, swallowing against a dry throat. "…Cookies. I was going to make cookies. To make the house smell good for when Charlie came… Saw it on the Home Network…"

Jack bit back a grin in spite of himself. Of course she had. It was her guilty pleasure, one he indulged as often as he could. She allowed him the Simpsons, after all. "Do you remember me coming home?"

She paused, then closed her eyes.

"No…" Her voice sounded suddenly strangled, and his heart jumped into overdrive.

"Samantha?"

"My head… Jack, it hurts…"

A tear leaked past her lids, and even if it hadn't he would have heard the agony in her voice. His hands blindly reached for the call button. The nurses had told him to expect this, and he had. They were ready and waiting with painkillers, and it was imminently necessary.

"It's going to be okay," he told her, his thumb clicking the call button on. "Someone's coming. Just—"

His voice caught in his throat, and her eyes opened at the sound of it. "Just don't forget on me, okay?"

The weak smile didn't convey the poor joke he meant it to be, and a sob hitched in her chest.

"No… I don't want to forget…"

Jack kicked himself, silently berating his stupidity. The last thing he'd wanted to do was put her in even more distress. He pressed his hand to her cheek, pulling her focus back to him. "Hey… Just because this happened doesn't mean you're gonna have a mental flush, okay? I'm sorry I mentioned it."

"Jack…" Her voice was a whisper now, soft and plaintive. "I don't want to lose you…"

"You won't," he assured her, even as the nurse came in, syringeful of sedative in hand. And she wouldn't lose him. If anything, he would be the one losing her. But she would never lose him. "The nurse has some meds for you… to help you sleep."

"No," she pleaded. "No, please—Jack… I don't want to sleep. I don't want to forget."

Jack caught the nurse's eye, who had hesitated at her plea. But her expression was grim. "Sir, her heart rate's too high. We need to get her calm."

He looked back down at Samantha, and saw her edging into hyperventilation, her eyes clouded by pain and growing pain. He wouldn't be able to calm her himself, not fast enough. He nodded to the nurse. "Do it."

It was uncertain to Jack how much of her surroundings Samantha registered. But he held her hand as her distress slowly calmed, and her breathing evened out. He whispered comfort to her, assuring her that he would be there when she woke.

He could only hope she would be too.

* * *

"Where's Doctor Mackenzie?"

Jack's eyes jumped between Samantha and this new, unfamiliar doctor. He was curious as well. He could have sworn that Mackenzie had been the one to meet the paramedics at the receiving terminal here at the hospital, but then again, he'd been more preoccupied with Samantha.

The doctor—Vintner, was it?—gave them both a beaming smile. "He was called out of state unexpectedly. Some kind of family emergency as far as I've heard. I don't know all the details myself, but he asked me to review and take over your care in his absence. I hope that's all right."

Dr. Vintner was middle-aged, stout, and really rather plain looking. Besides a shiny pate that gave off a significant glare Jack was sure would send Samantha into another migraine, he was really unremarkable. Nothing to notice. But he seemed competent enough, Jack supposed.

Next to him, Samantha shrugged. "I trust Dr. Mackenzie. If he trusts you, then I guess..."

She was finally herself again, after several rounds of adjusting pain medications that kept the pain away without knocking her out completely. To Jack's eyes, she was still a little off her usual game—a split-second lag time in reaction, the slightest fuzziness to her normally razor-sharp gaze. But it was better than flat-on-her-back zonked out.

"Excellent," Vintner grinned, shifting on his stool as he started flipping through his notes. "Well, I've been reviewing your file, and looking at the scans taken since the event…"

Jack swallowed a derisive snort. Only a doctor could reduce the most frightening moment of his life to a mere _event_.

"Do you know what caused it?" Samantha asked, curling her hand around his. Jack gently squeezed back.

The doc's brows rose in a clear expression of uncertainty. "Well… We think it might have been a seizure."

"A _seizure_?"

"You _think_?"

Jack's voice mingled with Samantha's as they each issued their own queries. But their tones were spot-on identical. Vintner blinked, clearly debating whether he should comment on it. In the end, he opted not to.

"As I'm sure you've been told before," he began, "the science of the brain is not exact. And in circumstances as unique as yours, well—we're clearly at a loss in certain capacities. Nothing about your case has been strictly textbook, and this is no exception. In my opinion, whatever happened straddles the line between seizure and stroke. And given that you seem to have suffered no lasting ill-effects besides the migraines—which you'd suffered regularly even before the event, I might add—I'm leaning towards seizure. A stroke would have left tangible proof. Speech impediments, palsy, numbness, discoordination between the left and right sides of the body… You exhibit no such symptoms."

A moment passed as they both considered his words. Samantha broke the silence first. "So what's next?"

"Well, you've been stable for the past twenty-four hours, without any relapses aside from the pain. In light of that, I don't see any reason to keep you here."

"We can go home?"

Vintner nodded, a smile crossing his features. "Yes. I'll give you a script for combination of pain meds and anti-seizure medication we have you on right now. I recommend you use it regularly for the next three days or so, at which point you can then dial it back to as needed. Don't be surprised if it makes you tired—a lot of meds like this will. My recommendation is to not fight it. Sleep as much as you can, take it easy the next few days. Sleep can only do more good for you."

Beady eyes looked expectantly through clear-rimmed glasses at them. Jack's brow rose. "That's it?"

Thin lips widened in a smile. "That's it." He held out his hands congenially. "Unless either of you have any more questions for me?"

Jack looked to Samantha, and she looked back at him in surprise. She shrugged. "I guess that's it then."

Vintner nodded. "All right then! I'll send a nurse by with your discharge papers and your clothes. Do you need transportation home?"

Jack blinked. "Yeah, actually." He'd ridden in the ambulance with her… he had barely registered that they'd gotten rerouted, but Mackenzie's face had been a welcome sight—he _had_ been there. Jack was sure of it now. But it didn't really matter. This guy seemed okay enough. And either way, it didn't change the fact that his truck was currently sitting parked in his driveway.

But Vintner just nodded in acceptance. "All right, that won't be a problem. We'll get a car to take you home."

"Car?" Not a taxi?

Jack barely had time to realize that he'd nearly forgotten one small little factoid. "Of course, Colonel O'Neill," Vintner explained. "The Mission Commander's privacy is well secreted amongst us here at this facility. I can assure you that your average taxi driver would not be so discrete."

"Right," Samantha returned. "Thank you."

Vintner nodded. "My pleasure. It's honor to be involved in your care, Miss Carter. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact me. I'll give you my card, and it'll have my off-shift contact number on there as well. And also, if after four or five days you still feel the need to continue taking the pain medication more than once a day, or if you experience any new symptoms, I want you to call me. We'll get you back in here and do some more testing."

Samantha nodded. "Okay."

"Great," the doctor declared, clapping his hands together. "Remember… Plenty of rest, lots of fluids, and healthy eating."

They both nodded, and the doctor shook their hands and swept from the room, his understated but significant energy leaving a vacuum in his wake. They both stared after him, but then, after a moment, they looked to each other.

Jack shrugged. "Well there's a relief, huh?"

She nodded wordlessly, her head leaning into his shoulder in evident exhaustion. It had been a long couple of days. She didn't remember that first time she'd woken up—Jack figured it must have been nothing more than some kind of twilight come-to… Not quite all there.

But she did remember the next time she'd woken up: when she'd recognized where she was and for an agonizing split second she'd thought she'd forgotten everything again. The relief that had come when she'd run through her facts—and discovered she still could—had been welcome, but had taken the wind right out of her, it seemed.

She looked deflated, almost.

If that made any sense at all.

Jack shoved it from his mind, focusing on the mission at hand. He stood, stretching laboriously before turning to her expectantly.

"Let's go home."


	29. Chapter 29

She slept.

And she slept.

Then she slept some more.

She seemed all right when they left the hospital, but once she was home, the meds took it out of her. Sometimes she was out for hours at a time, other times she padded around the house like the walking dead. If she spoke at all it was at a low mumble, and what little Jack could actually make out barely made sense.

It scared him, but she got a little better as she was weaned off the meds as the days passed. Not a lot, but enough for him to hold off on calling the hospital.

He did what he could, bouncing back and forth between taking care of her and reassuring Charlie that everything was all right. After the canceled dinner, they'd spoken briefly once or twice, but not nearly to the extent his son needed. Jack suspected it had been the tone of his voice when he'd called to cancel that had Charlie so worried. And if is son was anything like him, he wouldn't be reassured until the dinner was reinstated and successfully completed.

But that would have to wait. It would wait until she could stay awake for more than an hour at a time. Until she could speak in complete sentences without slurring. Until her easy smile returned and her eyes regained their sparkle.

He finished putting the last touches on the grilled cheese and tomato soup he had fixed, only to look up at an unexpected rustle of movement from the hallway. He turned to find Samantha standing just inside the kitchen, her hand resting on the counter for stability.

"Hey…" Her voice was thick and muggy, but more tangible than it'd been in the past couple of days.

"Hey," he returned. He brought himself and both meals over to the island. "How're you feeling?"

Her shoulder lifted in a murky shrug. Her lips parted to speak, but before she could even get a word out she was interrupted by the sound of Jack's cell phone going off at full blast.

She blinked as he winced, quickly fumbling to send the call to voicemail. When the room was silent once more, she looked at him blurrily. "Who was that?"

"Oh, ah…" He debated whether or not to tell her truth. He didn't really want to put more pressure on her, but at the same time, dishonesty was the last thing they needed. "Charlie. He's been trying to reschedule—"

"The dinner," she finished for him, her eyes widening slightly as she remembered why she'd been making cookies that day. Her brow furrowed, and she visibly shook herself, trying to brush off the last of her fatigue. "Call him back. We'll do it tonight."

"What?" Jack stepped towards her. "Are you sure? I mean—"

"I'm fine," she said, waving him off. "Give me a few hours to wake up the rest of the way, and we'll do this."

Jack hesitated. "But—"

"I want to meet him, Jack." Blue eyes met his, gripping him in place. "I'm not going to let _this_ put that on hold indefinitely."

"Not indefinitely, Samantha. Just maybe a few more days, until—"

"Until what, huh?" A pale hand reached up to run her fingers through oily hair— the only physical indication of her agitation, her frustration. "Until I'm no longer at risk of losing everything? Until I don't have any more headaches? I don't think either is going to happen anytime soon, Jack."

He shrugged, buying himself time to think of something, anything, to take the pressure off her. "He's not going to disappear, you know. He'll wait until you're feeling a little better."

Her eyes narrowed, but a gleam sparked in her gaze. It was familiar, and a relief.

"I am feeling better," she declared, her tone edging into spite. But the smirk of her lips took the anger out of her voice, leaving only an accepted challenge in its wake. "Watch me."

And then he was left standing there, staring after her as she padded back to the bedroom. Still a little sluggish, but some of her bounce was back. Bounce, hell—that was fire he'd seen just now. And thank god for it.

Somehow, Jack didn't mind being overruled as much as he thought he should.


	30. Chapter 30

Samantha was true to her word. One long shower and a fresh change of clothes later, she was looking more like herself than she had in days. She seemed more alert, and more reactive than she'd been since the hospital, but there was still a quiet aura about her, hanging around her like a shadow.

She didn't speak as she helped him prep dinner, but she listened as he brought her up to speed on what Charlie had been up to. She heard him relate his son's course studies to her, about the vacation he'd been on with Sara and Kawalsky. It was only when she wrinkled her nose at the fact that his best friend had married his ex-wife that he realized she wouldn't have remembered that particular tidbit.

Colonel Carter had known—more than that, she'd understood. Maybe that was what had helped convince him that she was telling the truth about where she'd come from. Because she'd understood the brotherhood between soldiers, how a bond forged in battle could sometimes be stronger than a seeming betrayal of going after his ex.

The Mission Commander didn't understand. She accepted it, saw it as odd—but she didn't understand, or appreciate.

But by the time dinner was in the oven and Charlie's arrival was imminent, there was no tension, and he was hopeful the evening wouldn't be a complete disaster. The music was playing loudly, a little bit louder than usual, but he didn't complain—especially when he saw her bobbing her head in time to the beat, dancing in place ever so slightly.

He didn't hear Charlie's arrival until it was too late.

"Whoa."

The deep exclamation of shock made them both freeze. Samantha's head lifted in surprise, and Jack looked up just in time to see Charlie's features pale in recognition. His jaw worked wordlessly, managing only to issue a few vowels as he struggled to recover his wits.

Samantha glanced to Jack in confusion, but her eyes narrowed when she saw his expression of guilt. He hadn't told Charlie who he was actually coming here to meet. He thought he had, but now that he thought about it, he didn't think he'd actually gotten around to it.

"So much for tact," she murmured darkly in his direction, before her features brightened into a smile for Charlie. She passed Jack to extend her hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm—"

"Samantha Carter," Charlie answered for her, his eyes still wide. But his features turned sheepish when he heard the awe in his own voice. "I think everyone knows who you are," he laughed. The laugh was humorless… nervous.

Samantha gave an effacing shrug. "Yeah... I guess so."

A tense silence fell as Charlie tried not to stare, and Samantha tried not to notice. But when her cheeks started to flush with frustrated embarrassment, Jack stepped in. "Hey, Charlie why don't you go ahead and choose a spot at the table? We'll get drinks poured and join you in a second…"

Charlie nodded, looking almost grateful for the save. Once he disappeared into the living room, Jack turned to Samantha, who was studiously avoiding his gaze.

"I'm sorry—"

"I know." Her voice was thick. "But you were supposed to talk to him. To tell him." She glared up at him. "So that wouldn't happen." She pointed towards his now absent son.

Jack tried to smile. "I think that would've happened anyway…"

"That's not the point!" Her temper was growing, and she visibly pulled herself back. "I don't want to get into this now…" she said, her voice softening just a bit. "But it wasn't supposed to happen this way."

She pulled a few cans of pop from the fridge, and went to join Charlie. Jack let her go, deciding to check on the food before he followed her. Maybe having a few moments by themselves would build the bridges between them that he'd meant to lay the foundation for.

If anything, it might ease her temper a bit more if she didn't have to see him for a few minutes.

Sure enough, by the time he finally joined them, Samantha's posture had relaxed some, and her lips were smiling. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but he knew why it didn't. It was because Charlie's seat in his chair was still tense, still formal. He was uncomfortable, and it showed.

Jack knew it by the way he was sitting. Normally, when Charlie sat he sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankle while he threw one arm over the back of his chair. But right now, his back was flush with the chair, his knees almost touching as he fingered his soda can absently.

And Samantha knew by the fact he couldn't meet her gaze. There was a faint blush staining his cheeks that refused to disappear entirely. His hands refused to rest, fidgeting with his soda can, or readjusting the hooded sweatshirt he had tied around his waist.

As dinner progressed, Jack did what he could to keep the silence away. But it was hard with Samantha unable to contribute anything relevant—what was she gonna do, make up anecdotes about herself?—and Charlie barely answered with monosyllables.

Somehow, the conversation turned towards politics, and when Samantha mentioned seeing an interview of one in particular, a Senator Robert Kinsey, Charlie suddenly knocked himself out of his funk. He chuckled.

Jack and Samantha both turned to him, but it was Samantha who voiced the query they both had. "What?"

"Do you really not remember anything?" The question itself bordered on rude, but his tone was curious, interested, and so Jack didn't go racing to her defense when she fielded it herself.

"No." Short, succinct… perfect. "Why?"

"Because you hate that guy."

Blue eyes widened, then narrowed. "And how would you know something like that?"

Charlie grinned. "The whole country knows it. Well, they know that he hates you. We don't really know your feelings on the issue. Mom always said you were too classy to sucked into one of his pissing matches..." Jack cleared his throat, and Charlie's cheeks flushed. "Anyway... he tried to have you fired from NASA."

"What?" Even Jack leaned in now. He hadn't heard about this.

"Well, see, you published a physics paper that he'd gotten wind of. He started going off on how it was entirely unfounded and goes against the basic tenets of the physical world."

"Oh please," Jack drawled. "Like Kinsey would know crap about physics."

Samantha looked between the two of them, her eyes starting to sparkle at the sudden interaction. "Why wouldn't he?" They looked at her, and she backtracked. "Well, clearly I must have been right," she amended, causing both boys to grin. "But why would Kinsey not know?"

"Oh, because he's a right wing fundamentalist," Charlie answered drolly. "He tried to pass a bill a couple of years back that would have outlawed the teaching of Darwinian evolution in public schools. He wanted teachers to only teach Intelligent Design."

"Oh, Jesus," Samantha breathed rolling her eyes.

"Exactly. Needless to say, that didn't get very far. But when he went after your work, he claimed that you were subjugating NASA's "purely exploratory ventures" in order to further your own research into what amounted to pagan propaganda."

"What? It's science…"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. That's what NASA said too. They said that, and every physicist in the world came to your defense. Even that one guy… McKay. He was one of your biggest rivals in the field, but even he pretty much told Kinsey that he needed to shut his trap before flies got in. Your work was beyond reproach, and anyone who actually knew anything about the subject knew it."

Jack glanced towards Samantha, just in time to see her cheeks flush slightly. "Oh…"

"And then NASA pretty much shut down any further discussion by saying that it didn't really matter what you wanted to study up there. You could have been looking for dinosaur fossils on the moon for all they cared—they'd hand you a blank check with a 'bon voyage' and only hope you'd eventually come back down again."

A beat passed, before Samantha tried to change the subject. "Kinsey doesn't actually seem that bad though."

"That's how he got elected in the first place," Jack chimed in. "Good stance on unemployment and taxes on the outside—total whackjob on the inside."

Samantha nodded, accepting the analysis. But then she looked back to his son. "I'm surprised you know so much about it, Charlie," she voiced softly.

He shrugged. "I did a paper on it my senior year of high school, basically called Kinsey's crusade a witch-hunt. Related the whole situation to how science used to be considered in the Dark Ages... proof that we haven't really advanced as much as we thought, in the large scheme of things."

"That's a neat way to put science in a political view," Samantha observed. "Jack said you were a political science major… why do you think Kinsey even cared about my theories?"

He was silent for a long moment, mulling it over. "He must have seen you as a threat. He sees NASA as a huge drain on the nation's resources. He wants to shunt funding to the military, and the easiest way to get that funding would be to cut NASA out of the picture. And he was nearly there until you came onto the scene."

"Huh?"

"You were the Air Force poster child. You had a boat load of combat experience with dozens of service medals to prove it, but you were also brilliant. You're the leading mind in astrophysics, and every privately-owned research company in the world wanted you. But you only had eyes for NASA. The Air Force played their cards right and bet everything they had on you. And you single-handedly pulled American interests back into space. And once we did, the rest of the world did too. And they turned to the most visible person to explain everything to them—and that was you."

Her cheeks flushed a little bit deeper. Her throat worked as she swallowed thickly. Her fingers picked at her napkin absent-mindedly. She was embarrassed. "I… I'm honored you think so much of me."

And just like that the easy rapport disappeared. Charlie's gaze snapped closed, remembering himself. He pulled back, leaning back in a parody of his usual relaxed pose. "The whole world thinks it," he delivered, his voice low. "It's not like it's a secret or anything."

Samantha blinked, almost wincing at the suddenly clipped words. She looked to Jack, eyes wide and apologetic. It was then that he made the suggestion that they move to somewhere more comfortable.

They moved into the living room, but Samantha took the opportunity to first clear the dinner dishes. Figuring she wanted the chance to collect herself in the face of his son's sudden withdrawal from the conversation, Jack didn't make any overture to help her. He wanted to smack the kid upside the head, but got distracted when Samantha leaned across the table to reach for a glass, presenting an eye-catching view of her…

A strangled sound interrupted his train of thought, and Jack yanked his gaze away from her rear view in shame. He looked up only catch his son's eyes darting away. Rosy cheeks went beet red, and he squirmed in his seat in a way Jack hadn't seen since Charlie was ten. Jack instantly reeled himself in—he could get his fill of appreciation after his son was gone.

Samantha eventually came in bearing cups of coffee, and together they settled in for more comfortable chatting. At least, that's what he'd intended. But when Samantha settled onto the couch next to Charlie, while Jack had assumed his usual easy chair, Charlie clammed up.

It was like pulling teeth. His gaze remained glued to his coffee while Jack jumped into a Charlie-boy anecdote. But even that state of grace shattered when Samantha bumped him lightly with her elbow. The touch was meant to be teasing, familiar, but Charlie suddenly bolted to his feet, nearly spilling the hot contents of his mug in the process.

"I—I just remembered I have a paper due… tomorrow. Due tomorrow." Charlie was mumbling now, his cheeks bright red. "I gotta go."

And just like that he was gone, moving so fast he nearly stumbled through the screen door. Jack stared after him, then darted his gaze to Samantha, whose eyes were wide and—hurt. She thought it was her fault.

One glance and he was out of his chair chasing after his son. His first shout went unheeded, but the second brusque "hey" was accompanied by a yank on the arm that even his mule-headed son couldn't ignore. Charlie whirled to face him, and brown eyes clashed in a battle of wills.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jack demanded.

He'd meant it to be more sensitive than that, but he was fed up with the whole thing. It was like Charlie had regressed ten years in age, once again sullen and bitingly temperamental.

The fact Charlie's only response was to jerk away from him only heated his temper further.

"Oh, no you don't," Jack warned, yanking him back. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing! Let me go—"

"No way in hell," he growled. "You don't have a paper due. You're lying." He glared at his son. "I didn't raise a liar—"

"No, you raised a good student!"

"Bull shit." His son was actually a great student, but that wasn't issue here, and they both knew it. "Do you really want to make me go back in there and explain to the woman who's been dying to meet you that you lied to get out of spending time with her?"

Charlie's cheeks flushed, his jaw stubbornly set. "Tell her whatever you want—"

"I'd like to tell her the truth! You might have suddenly become a liar, but don't you dare make me one."

That made Charlie pause, halfway turned from him. Clearly, he wanted to dive into his car and peel out of there, but something made him stop. Sensing he was getting through, Jack pushed a little bit more.

"I don't get it. You two hit it off during dinner, and now you can't get away from her fast enough. And she might have her problems, but being stupid isn't one of them. She didn't buy your excuse either, and right now she's sitting in that house wondering what the hell she did to make you hate her—"

"I don't hate her, Dad! Okay? I don't!" Charlie stormed back and forth, fuming. "How the hell could anyone hate her? She's per—" He cut himself off abruptly, his cheeks flushing a deeper red. "She's smart, pretty, and she's funny… She's—She's perfect, Dad."

Jack blinked. "Well, then what—"

"She's hot, Dad. And she's awesome." Charlie looked away, and resettled his sweater across his waist. Suddenly, Jack realized that its placement might have been more strategic than he'd thought to consider. "A guy can't help reacting to that, you know?" Charlie winced, his cheeks coloring once more. "…She even smells good, Dad."

Jack's brows lifted. "Ah… right."

A tense silence fell, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from beyond their secluded little cul-de-sac. They looked at each other uncomfortably, neither really wanting to say anything else, but both knowing things still needed to be fixed.

Charlie was the first to make breach the void. "I think she's great, Dad. Really," he affirmed. "And I'll be okay—I just need some time to get my head on straight." He shrugged, offering a tight, but lop-sided grin. "I mean, she could end up being my step-mom."

Jack pulled back, his nose wrinkling in surprise. What was he supposed to say to that? Oh, god, this was awkward.

He swallowed. "Right… Okay, then…"

"I'm gonna go now," Charlie told him. "Tell her I'm sorry, okay? But I really can't stay…"

"All right. I'll— tell her something."

Charlie nodded his thanks, and turned to climb into the car. Just before he disappeared behind the wheel though, he hesitated. "She really is great, Dad. Some warning would have been nice though."

Jack winced this time. Yeah, that one was on him.

"But Dad, I gotta know…" Jack met Charlie's gaze, and found serious eyes staring back at him. "She's not just some assignment, is she? You're not—you're not just using her?"

Jack shook his head. "No."

He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't come. Luckily, it was all the answer his son needed. Charlie nodded.

"She's special, you know. And if the whole shuttle crash thing and recovery story is true… she's gonna need someone in her court." Jack nodded, accepting his son's words. "Hold onto her, Dad. I think she might be your one."

Jack nodded again, his jaw set. He didn't say anything.

"I'll call," Charlie finished, finally shutting the door behind him as he slid behind the wheel. Jack watched as he pulled away, then turned back to the house. Inside he could just barely see Samantha's shadowy form clearing off the rest of the table, bringing the leftover food back into the kitchen.

He wasn't sure how things had gone pear-shaped so quickly, but he hoped that they would fix themselves just as fast. Samantha's form had paused now, her hands moving in front of her. He couldn't see what she held, but he knew from the motions of her elbows that she was twisting open the cap to her pill bottle. Her head hurt—badly, if she was dipping into the good stuff. And it was his fault. He shouldn't have let the dinner happen so soon after being released from the hospital.

And he should have anticipated that Charlie would fall in love with her. Well, Jack had actually hoped he would… just not so literally. But he had to trust that his son would find a way to make things right—both for himself, and for Sam. Jack knew she'd enjoyed the dinner in those short moments Charlie had actually spoken.

Jack couldn't deny he was being selfish. He wanted to rejoin his family—but he wanted her to be a part of it. And the whole thing hinged on Charlie.

So he took a deep breath and burrowed his confliction deep beneath an easy mask of familiarity, climbing the porch steps back into the house. Samantha sat down the glass of water she'd used to swallow her pills, looking up at him with regret as he sat next to her on the couch.

"I ruined it, didn't I?" she asked softly.

Jack met her gaze. "No. No, you didn't."

"He didn't have a paper to write."

Jack shook his head. "Nope. But he promises to come back soon. He just had to take care of a few things."

Samantha took a deep breath, then let it out in a soft sigh. Already she looked worn out, her energy from before vanishing in the blink of an eye. And her head did hurt—he knew it, even though he didn't bother to ask. And she probably wouldn't admit it herself, unless…

"I think I'm going to go lie down for a bit."

Unless she did that. She got to her feet when he nodded and promised to finish cleaning up. She disappeared moments later, and he let her go without another word. She'd earned her rest.

But the next morning, she emerged to find some breakfast and came face to face with the biggest bouquet of flowers Jack had ever seen. All sorts of flowers, every shade of color—it was impressive.

With it sat a note apologizing for the night before, and a reschedule date for next week: this time at Charlie's place.

The sight of Charlie's scrawled signature sparked a beaming smile that lit up the entire room.


	31. Chapter 31

"This isn't working." Cam pushed his chair away from the scarred wooden table, running his hands over his face. "How do we know she's even here? She could be in DC by now."

Daniel shook his head, shifting his seat on the uneven motel mattress. They'd been in this motel room for three days, and the next night they would move to a different one. They had to keep moving, in case any of the marshals or feds were trying to find them. They were all equally unpleasant, but they'd both had far worse, so it really wasn't so bad.

Even though Daniel sometimes would have preferred a tent off world.

"I don't think so," he said, his eyes not leaving the page of the phone book he was studying. "If she were, there'd be paparazzi following her from one gala to another. I think she's trying to lay low, live normal."

Cam groaned. "But we have tracked down and called every single Carter in three boroughs, and not one of them is even close to who we're looking for. We're going nowhere with this!"

"There's something about Chicago that's familiar," Daniel hummed absently. "Like it's important. I know she's here."

Cam stood, his anxiety edging into aggression. "Then we need another strategy, don't we? Because what we're doing? Ain't working!"

Daniel blinked, barely listening to him. His brow furrowed then, his eyes catching on a name. "Huh."

"Huh? Huh what?" Cam was now curious.

Daniel pointed, but didn't move the book to let Cam actually see. "There's a Charles and Sara Kawalsky living in the next borough over… I wonder if—" He wrinkled his nose, but then shrugged. "I guess it could be, since he wouldn't have died in this reality, but… Sara? That can't be a coincidence."

"Daniel? You've lost me… Try explaining, huh?"

Daniel looked the page over, as though it would tell him something more. "Kawalsky was part of the first Abydos mission. And he went through the second time too, a year later."

"Oh yeah… yeah! He was the first soldier taken over by a host. But it was an infant though, right?"

Daniel nodded distractedly. "They tried to remove it, but it didn't work and he ended up dying."

"So… it makes since that he's alive in this timeline, because without the Stargate his death wouldn't have happened. Makes sense. But why is this big news?"

"Well, he was a good friend of Jack's, from Black Ops."

"So?"

"And Jack's wife was named Sara."

Cam's eyes widened. "Whoa—you think?"

"That this Sara and Kawalsky are the Sara and Kawalsky?" Daniel supplied, his tone falsely light. "I think it'd be a hell of a coincidence."

"And SG-1 doesn't really do coincidence," Cam agreed solemnly. "So, you wanna go check them out?"

Daniel squinched his eyes slightly, hesitantly. "I don't know. Maybe. But it's given me a thought."

"Uh oh…"

Daniel ignored him. "That's why Chicago is so familiar," he said. "This is Jack's hometown. He grew up here."

"I thought he was from Minnesota?"

"He spent a lot of time there, but once Charlie was born, I think he spent most of his time here."

Cam nodded, his eyes widening as his brain raced to catch up. "Charlie's still alive in this timeline. You think the kid's still here?"

Daniel shrugged. "I think it's a good chance."

"And if the kid's here, the General is here."

"He's a still Colonel in this timeline, but yeah. I think so."

Cam blinked, his features hardening. "And you don't think…"

Daniel tilted his head. "Yeah, I think." He met Cam's steadily. "Do you think Jack and Sam could ever live in the same city and not know it?"

Cam heaved a sigh. "They're like magnets. Of course they'd know. So if we find one…"

"We find the other."

They stared at each other, their gazes heavy. Daniel's heart clenched painfully. He'd suspected his friends' feelings for each other for a long time—longer than even they had fully realized. And when Jack—their Jack— had proposed to Sam, he'd been the first person they'd told.

But now he couldn't help but feel like putting Jack and Sam in the same city in this timeline would be like pouring gasoline on a flame. In the right timeline there was always a tingle of electricity between them— here, with the secrets and the constant threat of discovery, they could go outright nuclear.

"All right then…" Cam broke the silence with a grunting sigh as he got to his feet. "Let's find Colonel O'Neill."


	32. Chapter 32

"They've been asking questions."

"Do they know?"

The question was even and measured—its speaker an individual with the situation well in hand. It could have been the same room, or a different venue equally hidden. Only its occupants would ever know which it was. This location was just as shadowed as the first, despite the bright afternoon its occupants would find waiting for them outside the building.

There was no indication of where the room might be, no sign of outside world. The room existed in and of itself, independent of space and time.

A moment's hesitation passed before the question was answered. "Only what the rest of the world knows."

"It's only a matter of time before the press catches wind of it," uttered a third voice. A voice of reason. A thinker, perhaps a trusted advisor.

"Do you think they'll go to the media?"

The thinker answered without hesitation. "It doesn't matter if they do. Someone will hear… someone will talk."

"We need to get it under control," declared another, brassy voice. Military. A man used to issuing orders, and having them followed.

But the voice in charge was not so quick to come to a conclusion. Or a decision. "Does she remember?"

A nervous, new voice answered. "There's been no indication of any continued recovery of her memory."

"You think it's safe?"

"No," the military responded gruffly. There were too many unknown variables. Too much risk, with too much at stake.

"Maybe," the thinker reasoned, cutting across the military's snap decision with an even hand. "This will happen regardless of what we do. Only by acting now do we stand a chance in controlling how it happens."

A heavy silence fell over the shadowed room, as the man in charge mulled over his options. His options, however, were narrow, and his decision was expected.

"Then we act now."


	33. Chapter 33

"This is scarier than facing the entire nation," Samantha muttered, straightening her uniform.

She was in her blues again, and she still looked hot. But Jack kept a curb on his libido in favor of keeping things as even as possible for her. She needed to be able to focus, if she was going to survive this.

"You're going to be fine," he assured her.

"Easy for you to say… you're not the one going in front of the hungry horde."

Jack grinned. "Just relax… They're just kids. How bad could they possibly be?"

He swung open the door, and Samantha could tell by the grin on his face that he fully expected it to reveal a den of lawless heathens, with the kids screaming and biting at each other like rabid animals. But the scene she walked into was far more docile.

Mrs. Anderson's fourth grade class sat at their desks, fidgeting slightly in their seats. Clearly, the teacher had been warned, and had quieted them in anticipation. Twenty-six pairs of young eyes watched her walk into the room, her clicking heels the only sound in the room.

Somehow, it was worse than the idea of a brawling mass of kids.

Samantha eyed them as closely as they eyed her, and she waited until she was in the center of the blackboard before she paused and inspected them, her hands clasped in front of her.

"Good morning," she greeted.

"Good morning Miss Carter," they returned in unison. Clearly, such greetings were rote. And it also seemed to be their cue to relax. They fidgeted in their seats, but their eyes remained on her. They were curious.

"Well, it seems you already know my name," she said, still smiling. The teacher took the opportunity to bring her a chair—a small thing of plastic and metal rivets. Samantha accepted it with a nod of thanks, but didn't yet sit. She brought it in front of her, letting her hands rest on the back of it. "What else do you know about me?"

"You're dead!" one boy shouted, causing the rest to erupt into giggles.

The teacher was quick to jump in with an admonishing "Tommy!" but it did nothing to quash the grin on the kid's face. Samantha lifted a hand to the teacher, letting her know it was all right.

"Actually, Tommy," she answered for herself, "I'd be a zombie now, wouldn't I?" Her grin slanted slightly. "Be careful, or I might just eat your brains…"

The class giggled again, but this time Tommy's grin disappeared, his expression souring at the sudden role reversal. A little girl in the front row raised her hand, and Samantha looked to her with a nod. "Yes?"

"Are you really an astronaut?" The girl's voice was nervous, but clear and well-pronounced.

Samantha nodded. "Yes, I am."

It was a concession she'd had to make. She might not remember any of it, but she was here today as an astronaut, not as Samantha Carter. Jack thought it was a step towards regaining some of her memory. She wasn't so sure.

"My daddy says you're a hero."

The boy behind her leaned forward a tugged on her hair. "You just think she's pretty, Lily," he hissed.

But Lily, not one to be daunted, whipped around and leveled a glare his way. "You thought so too, Dylan!"

The boy slumped back in his chair, instantly cowed. His cheeks flushed, and he avoided Samantha's gaze. Instead she looked back to Lily as she turned back around in her seat. "He does, huh?" Lily nodded. "A lot of people do."

"Don't you?" This one came from the back of the room somewhere.

Samantha shook her head. "No."

"Why not?"

"You saved all those people!"

"Did you do something bad?"

"Whoa, whoa," she hemmed, lifting her hands for quiet. It came rather quickly, which surprised her. She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. Finally, she looked back at them seriously. "Do you think your parents are heroes?"

There was a beat of still silence, before a few shoulders lifted in wordless shrugs.

"What about your doctors?"

A few heads shook no.

"Or your teacher… Is Mrs. Anderson a hero?"

This time, they didn't move, sensing something was up, and suddenly wary. Samantha didn't push it. "Why don't you think any of them are heroes?"

"They didn't save anyone!"

"But they would. Your parents would give their own lives to save you, their kids. Doctors save lives. And Mrs. Anderson… she'd protect you if it came down to it."

"But they're supposed to do that," Tommy drawled, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Samantha tilted her head. "So was I. My crew was my responsibility. They trusted me to get them home safely. And I did. That's it." She shrugged, but effectively ended the conversation when she eyed them all suspiciously. "Are you sure you guys aren't all reporters in disguise?"

When they laughed, she grinned back at them, letting her gaze drift over to where Jack stood against one wall. He remained unobtrusively off to the side, and the nod he gave her told her she was doing fine. She took it to heart, and let it bolster her.

"Now, what is it you guys really want to know?" she voiced, finally taking a seat in the chair Mrs. Anderson had provided her.

The regulation pumps that came with the uniform didn't take long to make her leg hurt. Already, sharp stabs of pain shot their way up her leg from knee to hip with every step, and sitting put her on the same level as the kids. It felt better.

"And how about you raise your hands?" Mrs. Anderson chided, eyeing her class meaningfully.

They did. Hand after hand lifted like a wave, a sea of eager, open-minded kids. She found one in the middle, and pointed. "You, with the brown striped shirt… What's your name?"

The boy's name was Andy, and he wanted to know what the inside of a shuttle looked like. Tame, ordinary, and easy to answer. She'd even brought props.

"Why don't you all come a little bit closer and I'll show you," she told them, beckoning them closer. They surrounded her after only a moment's hesitation, and before long she had them squealing and giggling over photos a crewmate had sent her, of some of their prior flights.

Some were standard PR shots, but there were a few personal ones too, of all of them doing some zero-G acrobatics and juggling Tang. These were the ones she focused on, and these were the ones the kids had a blast looking at.

Sure, she made up a few stories to go along with the pictures, but she got the names right, and the kids were giggling, so she figured it was worth the bluff. It was unlikely NASA would put up a fuss for a few embellishments, considering they'd sent her here with her memory still a huge, gaping blank.

They only fell quiet again when she showed them a breathtaking shot of Earth's atmosphere from the porthole of the shuttle. Even she took a moment to admire the stunning view, studying the glow of the sun just coming up around the other side of the planet. It was beautiful. And something, the faint twinkle of the stars beyond, maybe, seemed familiar.

"Have you ever been in space?" She looked up to see Tommy looking at her with open eyes, all previous trace of antagonism gone. "Outside the shuttle… with just a suit?"

Samantha almost dismissed the question with a no… She'd planned to cast herself as the pilot only. But she surprised herself by answering, "Yes."

"What was it like?" Andy chimed in.

She paused, suddenly at a loss. She shouldn't know the answer to the question, and yet… she did.

"Have you ever gone to the pool, and just floated on your back?" Most of the kids nodded. "It's very much like that. Except it's dead quiet. There's no sound."

"Because there's no air, right?" another girl voiced. Her name was Amy, Samantha remembered.

She nodded. "That's right. The only thing you would be able to hear is the radio—so your crew can communicate with you, and the sound of your own breathing inside the suit. But your teammates don't talk to you all the time, so if you hold your breath, sometimes there isn't anything at all."

"What do the stars look like in space?"

"They look like they do on Earth, except they don't twinkle. And they're bright—so bright it looks like you could reach out and touch them."

"But they're, like, a gazillion miles away!" another student exclaimed.

Samantha smiled. "Exactly. And that's when you realize just how big the world is. Suddenly, our world isn't just our neighborhood, our country, or even our planet… It's so much bigger. All those stars out there are part of our world. And every single one of them has their own solar system, full of planets that could be just like ours…"

Samantha paused when she saw a hand go up. She blinked back the beginnings of a headache, and nodded in the direction of the question. "Yes, Evan?"

"Do you think people live on some of those planets?"

She thought about it for a moment. "I don't know… I guess so. Yes."

"But my daddy says there could only be life on Earth, because God put all the people and animals here."

Samantha took a breath. Religion was tough. "Your father might be right, Evan. But the Bible was written a long time ago, before we even knew there were other planets beside our own, let alone other solar systems. And there's so many… it makes sense that there would be some with life."

"But what if you're wrong?"

"I'm not saying who's wrong and who's right. Your dad can't know for sure that there isn't life out there. He hasn't been to those planets."

"But neither have you."

"No," she agreed. "I haven't."

"Nobody has!"

"No…" she returned. Her voice softened, pensive. "But I think… Someday we might."

She closed her eyes against the growing pain behind her eyes, and could only hold back a sigh of relief as Mrs. Anderson announced that it was lunch time. The kids returned to their desks, and thanked her in the same sing-song tune they had greeted her with. She got to her feet, hiding a wince at the stiffness in her hip, and made her way to where Jack had stepped forward, ready to get the door.

She threw them all a parting smile and a wave, and as if on cue they began to call out their individual, excited farewells. It was a few minutes before she was out in the hall, and Jack could close the door on the classroom. His eyes rested on her in that quiet, intense way she'd come to know so well.

She was hurting, and he could tell. It was as simple as that.

Her shoulder lifted in a wordless shrug. She wouldn't try to deny it. No point, really. Usually, he'd take her lead; if she didn't mention it, he wouldn't.

"That wasn't so bad," she voiced lightly.

His lips split into a grin. "You kidding me? You just blew the pants off those kids! They loved you!" He threw his arms around her, and pulled her close. She didn't resist, appreciating the warmth he offered, suddenly cold in the drafty school hallway. And any contact with him always took the edge off the headache. Always.

"But you know," he continued, his voice gentle as his hand rubbed up and down her back, "the way you were talking about space… For minute there, it sounded like—like you almost remembered."

She didn't answer, and he picked up on it in an instant. He pulled back, and ducked his chin to meet her gaze. "Do you remember space?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she let her gaze avoid his, tracking instead to the clock on the wall. It was in a cage. Weird.

"Samantha?"

"I don't know. Jack, I don't know." She closed her eyes against the renewed pounding against the inside of her skull. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if it would do any good. "I didn't think I did, but when that boy asked, I…" she shook her head. "It's not a memory, not like I remember what we did last week, or what we had for breakfast this morning. It's just… feelings. Wonder, amazement… peace."

"The way you described the stars… I could tell."

She finally met his eyes. "Jack… there's something else."

He blinked, surprised at the sudden change in her tone. "Yeah?"

She swallowed. "I—I think something went wrong."

"What? When? With the kids?"

"No… in space. I think—I think something went wrong when I…" Her voice trailed off as her thoughts wandered the more she tried to focus on them. "I remember feeling cold, and my chest getting heavy, like the air was thinning…" But in a suit that wouldn't happen unless something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

She blinked, and behind her lids she saw flashes, brilliant explosions that lasted for barely a moment before they faded in on themselves in the vacuum of space. But with each blast of light came a sense of loss—deep, bone-aching loss because she knew that so many lives were lost.

And when the fireworks faded completely, all that was left were colossal hulks of ghost ships, broken and battered and caught in an eternal graveyard of a battle lost.

"Samantha…"

The sound of her name made her blink, and she faltered as her headache came roaring into full strength, threatening to take her out at the knees. "Whoa…" Her hand instinctively gripped his arm, steadying herself against the wave of dizziness that hit her.

"Samantha, I need you to take your meds for me," Jack was saying, his voice forcibly calm.

"What happened?"

"You zoned out on me," he explained smoothly, holding out his hand, where two small pills sat waiting for her to take. "You need to take these, okay?"

"'Kay," she murmured, her thoughts splintering into a million different directions.

Something felt wrong. And not just her head. But she was scaring Jack. Again. She took the pills, and swallowed them with a swig of water from the bottle he offered her. The moisture felt good on her throat, but her hand trembled so badly she nearly dropped the plastic bottle.

"Aw, crap…"

The curse wasn't hers. It was Jack, and it was only then she noticed the tickle on the inside of her nose. Her hand lifted, and came away bloody. "Damn it—" She thrust her chin up, instinctively trying to protect the pristine uniform she threatened to drip on.

"It's okay," Jack told her, handing her a tissue he'd scrounged up from somewhere. It was linty, so wrinkled it threatened to tear apart under her fingers, but she pressed it to her nose anyway, without hesitation. She moved to tilt her head back, but he reached out to stop her. "Don't lean. You'll just make yourself gag. And we don't really need any more reason for you to pass out, do we?"

It was meant to be a joke, but she didn't smile, and he didn't push it.

"Just pinch and hold. It'll clot on its own," he assured her. She nodded. "Think you can walk?"

Her answer was to start moving down the hall, eager to be out of sight by the time the kids actually left for the cafeteria. They didn't need to see her like this. And she didn't need to be seen.

Jack drove, and by the time they reached home the bleeding had stopped. So had the headache, leaving her muddle-headed and tired.

"Better?" he asked, once the engine was silent.

She blinked, but it felt sluggish. Heavy. "Mhmm," she mumbled.

He turned towards her, covering her hand with his. "Samantha…" She turned her gaze to his. "Did you remember something else? About space?"

"Space…" It felt familiar, rolling off her lips. But she couldn't place it. She couldn't focus.

"Yeah, space. You know, the quiet, peaceful, reach-the-stars vastness outside our atmosphere. The place you just spent the last hour telling a classroom of kids about?"

Oh. "Right. Yeah…"

"Samantha… you all right?" The concern in his voice was evident, and she wanted to reassure him—but she wasn't so sure she was.

She blinked again. "I'm tired."

For a long moment, he didn't say anything. She wondered if he thought she might be avoiding the question. The first question. She wasn't.

What did he ask?

"Let's get inside then, huh?" he delivered finally. She nodded in relief. It was a nice day, but her warm, dark room beckoned invitingly. And maybe when she woke up from what she hoped would be a very long nap, she'd be able to think.

The trip inside passed in a blur, and she didn't truly focus again until she blinked her eyes open to stare at clock that shouted the time in angry red digits. 8:34. And it was evening, she realized when she noticed that it was dark out. She'd slept more than six hours.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she padded out of her bedroom, in search of Jack. She found him relaxing in front of the Simpsons with a beer in one hand. He was the picture of comfort, and seeing him sent a rush of warmth through her.

Her lips curled into a small smile, and simply looked at him until he looked up and saw her. As soon as he did he straightened, eager and pleased all at once. She waved him back into his seat on the couch, shuffling over to join him. It wasn't long before she was snuggled into his side, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked. His voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her cheek.

She sighed—which transformed into a yawn halfway through. "Fine," she managed to get out.

He chuckled. "Yeah. I can tell." She poked him in the ribs, making him squirm before pulling her in closer to press a kiss to her hair.

For a several long moments, they watched the episode playing out on the television screen. It was one they'd seen before, one of their favorites, but it still surprised her when he pressed a button on the remote, and turned the tv off.

She straightened, lifting her head to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nuthin'," he returned easily. But then his features fell into a serious expression. "But there's something I wanted to ask you about."

That sounded ominous. "Okay…"

She resituated herself on the couch cushion, preparing herself. But she was pleased to see that he wouldn't let go of her hand. Together, both their hands rested on his thigh.

"I was going to wait until you brought it up yourself, but it's been so long now that they're getting impatient, and—"

He didn't often dance around the point. "Jack—just ask."

He sighed, as though to bolster himself. "Your parents want to see you."

The simple statement hit her like a freight train. Her mind froze, completely taken aback, and when it jump-started a moment later, she was left feeling off-kilter. "What?"

"We wanted to leave it until you either remembered, or got curious on your own, but… your parents have been asking to see you ever since they saw the broadcast. We've tried explaining the situation, but they've started to think that we're hiding you from them."

He fell silent when she didn't say anything. "Samantha? What's wrong?"

"My parents?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Your mom and dad. Dorothea and Jacob Carter."

Her breath caught in her chest, and his hand trailed up her arm. "Samantha? You okay?"

She swallowed. "I just—"

"You don't have to see them. If you don't want to. The decision is yours."

"I'm just surprised, I guess."

"About what? That they want to see you?"

"That I have parents." His brow furrowed in confusion, and she shrugged. "I never thought about it before. I guess I kind of assumed they were dead. I mean—all this time…"

Sometimes, she forgot that she'd been dead all that time. All that time she thought no one was looking for her, no one missed her… Believing her parents were dead, well… it was easier than considering the alternative, and it hadn't occurred to her to think differently now that she knew the truth.

"They really want to see me?" she asked quietly, staring at her fingers. Her cuticles were torn.

Jack's hand crept into her vision, covering her hand. "Yeah, Samantha. They do. The brass was gonna run interference, but they didn't want to risk the bad publicity if anyone thought you were being hidden or something. Your folks wanna see you, and they want you to know them."

"So they know I don't remember anything."

"Yes. They don't care. You're their daughter. And they're your parents. Trust me. That trumps everything else."

For a long moment she didn't say anything. She felt the pressure building behind her eyes again. It was too much to think about. And yet, she was answering despite herself.

"All right," she declared. "I'll see them."


	34. Chapter 34

Dorothea Carter stood at the front window, staring through the glass to watch the street that had remained empty all morning. Even so, she remained there, as she had since waking up. Unable to sit, unable to rest, it was all she could do.

Ever since the Air Force had phoned them and informed them of Sam's acquiescence to their wish to see her, she'd been restless, anxious. Her husband had been far more stoic, but she had taken out her nervous energy by scrubbing the house wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Everything sparkled, with childhood pictures prominent on the mantle, the walls, various tables and settees.

She was proud of her children. She loved them. She knew them better than they knew themselves, sometimes.

And having her baby girl back was a blessing she'd never thought she'd have.

But for the first time since her Sammy had taken her first steps, she didn't know what to expect. She'd been told about the amnesia—they'd been fighting the barrier it had put up between them and their daughter for weeks. And now that the anticipated visit was imminent, the uncertainty was making her stomach squirm.

Her Sammy didn't remember who her parents were. Where she came from. It broke her heart to think about it.

"Thea…"

Jacob's distinctive voice rumbled from behind her, almost laughing. "A watched car never arrives, you know."

"Don't be a smartass, Jake," she scolded. But it was only half-hearted. After thirty years of marriage, their banter was second nature, but today she was too preoccupied to fully engage. And she knew it clued her husband in to how anxious she really was. "And you could stand to be a little more excited, you know. It's Sam. She's alive, Jake—our little girl…"

"I know," he said softly, coming up to wrap his arms around her from behind. "It feels like a dream."

"Only until we see her. Then I'll know she's all right. Right now I still feel like any moment someone will call and tell us it was all some kind of joke. A sick, horrible joke."

She felt her husband take a breath to reassure her, but before he could say anything they heard the rumble of an old engine, and a moment later a pick-up truck came into view. It pulled to a stop outside their home, and as the engine died Thea felt a knot of tension ease in her gut only to make way for a shiver of anticipation.

The truck's occupants were only shadows through the windows, but she knew the nearest one, the passenger, was her daughter. Her Sammy.

Thea trembled in Jake's arms, and her hand blindly searching for his until she gripped it, white-knuckled. This was it. It was a long moment before those car doors opened, but when they did, Thea's breath caught in her chest, when two tall figures stepped out into the sunlight. Her heart lifted…

And then came crashing down as she saw the state of her daughter.

With a mother's eye she took in the pale skin and haggard features, the skinny frame, and—dear god. A sling. Her right arm was in a sling, strapped close to her chest. And the single step she took up the walk before pausing was little more than a limp. And as her daughter's familiar face turned up to stare at her home, Thea saw the scraping scars that arced across her brow.

She was still beautiful, as she always had been. In that subtle way that everyone noticed but her. But that scar, and that sling and that limp… they were tangible proof that her daughter had survived an ordeal no one else could have. That no one else should have.

Thea and Jake had watched the broadcast and seen a Mission Commander standing tall. Sam had been strong, stalwart—as though nothing had changed. Like the world had blinked and the years without her simply poofed out of existence.

But looking at her now, so visibly apprehensive and scarred by horrific events, she seemed battered and weary, like a ship in a storm.

"Oh my god—" Her voice hitched in her throat. She gripped Jake's hand even tighter, pressing back into him as she tried to step away from the window. "I… I can't."

"Yes, you can, Thea," came Jake's solid reassurance. But his voice wobbled too, broken by fear, anger, and relief that the world had brought his daughter home to him. "She needs you now as much as you need her…"

"But look at—" She caught herself. Of course he'd already seen Sam. And her daughter wasn't the cause of her panic. "Look at me. She can't see me like this."

Sam had now been joined by her companion, a grey-haired man nearly a head taller than her, and together they were making their way up the drive.

"Jake, please…" Sammie couldn't see her like this, with tears pouring down her cheeks.

Jacob stepped back, releasing her with a squeeze. "Go check on the cookies. Get yourself put back together. I'll let them in."

She nodded and disappeared. No sooner had she put a foot in the kitchen did the doorbell ring, its tinny melody cheerily ominous. She ducked out of sight, breathless to keep her tears silent. Jacob waited a few beats before he strode to the door, and opened it wide.

Thea froze, heart pounding in her chest, as the voice that had haunted her dreams and memories issued from the doorway.

"Umm… Hi."

It was Sam.


	35. Chapter 35

The house was average enough. Modest, comfortable: not at all flashy or ostentatious. Just your average, middle-class, single family home. Good neighborhood, quiet street. But Samantha stared at it transfixed, as solemnly as one might a grave. It was disconcerting.

Jack wished she could get her answers just by staring at the deceptively simplistic structure. That way, she would be less at a disadvantage, and for once she might have one up on the rest of the world. But no answers were forthcoming.

The house stood mute, dispassionate and resolute beneath her scrutiny. And he could tell by her barely discernible frustration that she hadn't experienced any kind of flashback, childhood or otherwise. Perhaps the worst part was that he didn't know whether to be glad or disappointed.

He honestly didn't know if she really needed the sling. The weather was relatively mild, and she hadn't done anything more strenuous than read a book all week, but still she had come out of her room that morning with it on. He wondered if maybe—just maybe—she wanted the protection it offered. He imagined it would make her parents think twice about flinging their arms around her and sweeping her into a hug.

But he didn't ask about it. Instead he hooked his arm through her good one and escorted her down the sidewalk and up the porch steps. When they stopped, nothing happened. Jack knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her parents were hovering just on the other side, just itching to yank that door wide open. It didn't open though, and when Samantha continued to hesitate, Jack didn't rise to the bait either.

"This is your show, Samantha," he told her softly. "If you want to do this, you have to be the one to ring the bell."

She nodded once, her lips a thin line. She withdrew her arm from his and pressed the doorbell, cueing the sound that would announce her arrival. They waited one, two, three Mississippis, and then the door opened wide, revealing a grizzled face with a balding pate and sharp eyes. Samantha tensed against Jack's side, staring warily. But when the man didn't make any overt move towards, she broke the silence first.

"Ummm… Hi." Not the most eloquent, but she offered a thin smile that took the edge off the tension.

"Hi."

The man was clearly as nervous as she was. Neither of them knew what to do… or how to do it. But when he stared at her, it was in awe and disbelief. Those sharp eyes—which Jack was sure had skewered many a hopeful date back in the day—were misty with emotion, and only the bearing of a military officer kept his composure in place.

It was a few long moments that left Samantha fidgeting before Jacob Carter shook himself out of his stupor. "Won't you come in?"

Samantha offered a thin smile. "Thanks."

She stepped in first, and Jack followed. He kept on high alert, watching Samantha closely. This had the potential to end badly, and he knew it. And as much as he wanted this to work out, for both her and her parents, his concern was for Samantha.

They stood in the foyer for a long moment as Jacob closed the door behind them. Jack caught Samantha glancing at the walls in curiosity, only to look away with flushing cheeks as she saw the little blonde girl smiling back at her. Jack almost smirked; she was a cute kid.

Jacob held himself awkwardly, turning to the face them though his gaze was glued to Samantha. As though he thought if she weren't standing right there in front of him, he wouldn't have believed it. His arms twitched, almost lifting, but fell back to his sides as he tried to respect the boundaries he wasn't sure of, but was wary of.

Samantha saw the almost-hug, and offered a tight, apologetic smile. "I'm, ah… Pleased to meet you."

Jacob's lips tilted into a mirthless smile. "Right… I—" He took a deep breath, and let it out in a quick huff. "Look, I gotta tell yah… I don't know how this is supposed to work."

A relieved smile passed briefly over Samantha's features. "Me neither."

"You have to understand… we thought—" His voice caught in his throat.

Samantha nodded. "I know."

They stood there, staring, until Jacob took a tentative step forward. "May I?"

The fragility in his voice gave the clarity his words didn't. He wanted to be respectful, acknowledging of the situation they both found themselves in… but he needed the contact, the reassurance she wasn't some kind of ghost. And for a moment, Samantha hesitated. A nod followed, but it was a nod that was confident enough that Jack knew it was more than a decision to humor the old man.

She closed the distance between them, bringing herself close enough to put her good arm around Jacob's shoulders. And gently, ever so carefully, she was enfolded in her father's arms.

Jacob was mindful of her sling, and Jack could see the tension bleed from Samantha as she rested her chin on his shoulder. She might not remember him, but the man was familiar to her. Her body knew it. Her heart knew it.

"Dad…"

Sharp eyes softened with tears at the soft utterance. "Oh, Sammie… My Sammie."

Jack averted his eyes. He felt like a voyeur. A father's tears should only be seen by a select few; he wasn't one of them. But just before the scene became too emotional to bear, they separated, each wiping their eyes and clearing their throats. The tics were eerily similar.

"C'mon in, sit down, make yourselves comfortable." Jacob ushered them deeper into the house, off into a side room that had a window that looked out over the street. Samantha went in first, giving Jack a chance to meet Jacob officially.

The man's gaze scraped up and down his frame, both scrutinizing and judging. "Good afternoon, sir." He held out his hand, making the first move. "Jack O'Neill. Two L's."

The handshake went unreciprocated for a tense moment. "You've been watching over my girl?"

Jack hesitated. "Yeah…" he hedged. "Kinda. More like she's been watching over me. Makes sure I don't watch too much TV."

"It's true," Samantha chimed in with a smirk. "He's got a thing for the Simpsons."

Jacob's brows arched. "The Simpsons?" Jack shrugged sheepishly.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him," Samantha admitted softly. Her features were suddenly solemn, and her gaze tracked to Jacks'. "I owe him a lot."

Almost immediately, Jacob's features softened. "Then you are welcome in my house, Jack O'Neill—two L's."

He turned to look at Samantha. "Your mother's in the kitchen, checking on the cookies. She'll be out the second she's sure she won't burn the house down."

Blue eyes darted to Jack. "Cookies?"

"Yeah," Jacob affirmed. "Cookies are a homecoming tradition we have. We've been doing it ever since you were a kid, Sam."

Jack's lips curled into a smile. "She made cookies a couple weeks ago, when my son was coming over for the first time."

He tried not to notice how Jacob's eyes sparkled at the revelation. Samantha also looked askance, embarrassed. They sat in an awkward silence, as Jacob didn't dare press too heavily on the notion she might have remembered something without actually remembering. He didn't want to lift his own hopes, and Jack remembered all too keenly how the last cookie event had turned out. He hoped to avoid a repeat today.

It quickly became evident that Samantha had nothing to offer, and so they sat awkwardly, the silence thick as honey. But the unease only ratcheted up a notch when a sound came from the threshold of the room. Jack looked up to see an older, stately woman entering the room. Samantha rose to her feet, as though afraid of being caught in a house that wasn't her own. But where she could have easily transformed the motion into a greeting, she stared frozen at the grey-haired woman.

Jack could see the similarities—the physical features were more like Samantha's than Jacob's were—and as the two women stared at each other the tension thickened.

"Oh my…" Fresh tears welled in already reddened eyes; clearly, cookie baking wasn't the only reason Mrs. Carter had been lingering in the kitchen. "Oh, Sam… Look at you…"

But where tension had bled off Samantha's frame at her father's touch, it jumped right back on again at the older woman's words. Blue eyes raked up and down Dorothea's form, searching for something—anything—familiar. But Jack didn't see anything dawn in her gaze like it had for Jacob. A glance at the man in question confirmed that he was just a stupefied as Jack, and more disappointed.

Dorothea broke through the heavy tension with visible effort, moving across the room with an air of determination. Her arms lifted, as though reaching out to pull Samantha into a hug. But her hand could barely brush along her daughter's good arm before Samantha recoiled, almost flinching from her mother's touch as her eyes widened in sudden dismay.

Her gaze darkened with something that bordered on disgust. But was it really disgust? Jack couldn't tell, the way confusion and reluctance danced across her features. All he knew for sure was that something about the shorter, plumper woman put Samantha on a razor's edge.

But almost as soon as she pulled away the apprehension bled away into a shock that mirrored her mother's, revealing that it had not been deliberate. It had been reflexive, and that seemed to startle her as much as her reaction itself. Now Jacob seemed even more confused than Jack, especially after the relatively warm greeting he'd received himself.

"I—I'm sorry…" she stammered. Her good hand smoothed across her denim-clad thigh, nervously drying the cloying dampness. "I just—I'm sorry." She swallowed, settling her jaw into a firm angle. "But I don't know you…"

Dorothea recovered with grace.

"It's all right. I know all of this must be difficult for you." Samantha said nothing. Her only reaction was a gratuitous grimace, her gaze trailing anxiously across the room. "Please, sit down," Mrs. Carter urged. "Make yourself comfortable. This is your home as well."

Samantha remained where she was, frozen. Dorothea moved closer, tentatively, then motioned to the cushion next to Samantha. "May I?"

Samantha blinked, hesitant and wary. Her chin jerked in a nod, and the two of them sat in tandem; one with forced ease, the other with a spine so stiff it looked like a tap would snap it in two. The hand that had sought contact from her father a few short minutes ago took up residence on a jeaned thigh, and the bare cushion between them said more than it didn't.

"We were actually surprised you agreed to meet with us," Dorothea said. "When the Air Force explained your situation, we were afraid you'd be trying to move on."

Jacob winced, and Jack bit back a sigh. What was someone supposed to say to that? But at least she was trying, which was more than could be said of Samantha, who was positively mime-like. Her non-slinged shoulder lifted in a shrug.

"Hard to move on when you don't know where you've been," Samantha returned, barely more than mumble. Her gaze darted to Jack, and in that single flash of an instant he saw her apprehension, the deep-seated doubt in herself and her decision to come here.

Jacob came to her rescue. "Your brother wanted to be here," he said. "But he couldn't get out of California on such short notice."

"Mark," she supplied, her voice brightening. "He lives in San Diego…"

Jack saw the mister and missus both blink in surprise. "You remember Mark?"

Samantha's cheeks flushed, and her gaze fell to her knees as her fingers plucked at her sling. "I asked the Air Force for some information. I didn't want—"

She hadn't wanted to be blind-sided. She didn't want her parents to know how at a loss she was in terms of knowledge. With the basic facts in her back pocket, she at least had a chance to put up a façade. But it was more difficult than she'd imagined. Even with images of her childhood all around her, she remained blank.

"You know, his girls are in high school now," Jacob continued, "and the eldest is about to compete in the county science fair." Samantha perked up at that. "Her biology teacher is sponsoring her, and he thinks there's a good chance she'll make it to the state competition."

"What's her thesis?"

Jacob tried not to let his grin show. "Something about the effects of pollution on the reflections in pondwater—"

"Refraction, dear," Dorothea corrected, gentle with long-suffering practice. Her eyes shifted to Samantha, hooded in a conspiratorial glance.

Jacob dismisssed the correction wave of his hand. "Whatever…" He met Samantha's gaze with a knowing brow lift. "She used lasers and everything, Sam. You'd be proud of her. Reminds me of you when you were her age."

"She tested the effect of pollution on the refractive properties of standing water," Dorothea explained lightly. "She's so environmentally conscious… She eventually intends to apply her research towards underwater ecosystems."

"She may not be quite in your stratosphere, Sam, but she's just as driven," Jacob declared. The pride in his eyes was as much for his daughter as it was for his granddaughter.

Samantha's eyes bounced back and forth between her parents like she was watching a tennis match. A smile played at her lips, no longer the center of attention. Jack watched her during the exchange, allowing himself to relax slightly as he saw the walls fall away from her countenance. She looked almost at ease, and it showed in the set of her shoulders, the sparkle in her eyes.

"And what does Selmak think about having another scientist in the family?" The question slipped out into the open unexpectedly. Jack was taken aback, but his first instinct was to assume it was some sort of family inside joke. But a moment later his short-lived excitement was eclipsed by the abrupt sight of Jacob's and Dorothea's confusion.

Samantha herself didn't even notice that something wasn't quite right until her dad didn't answer. Then she saw the wide eyes and blank stares. "What?"

Jacob glanced sideways at Jack, who couldn't offer anything more than a minute shrug of the eyebrows. "Who's Selmak?" came the hesitant, but painfully blunt query.

Thin lips parted, ready to answer. But after a moment nothing but air escaped as Samantha gave a huff of discontent. Brows furrowed in confusion, she looked to Jack as well, but still he didn't have an answer. Then she glanced at her father, searching for a hint of a prank. But no one had anything to offer.

"Ah…" Her attempt to answer hesitated. "Um—" She paused, uncharacteristically confounded. She gestured towards Jacob. "I never…?"

"Called me Selmak?" Jacob supplied, his fingers lifting from the arm rests of his chair in emphasis. "No. I've never heard that name before."

Samantha's eyes closed, first in frustration, then in remembrance. Jack could almost see her mind working, trying to trace the path of her seeming slip of the tongue. Her head shook no, and when her eyes opened, they glinted with determination.

"No… I didn't—" Her voice growled with contained temper, but she cut herself off before she could fully get into it. Her jaw ground together, swallowing what was sure to singe their ears. This time, when Jacob glanced to Jack for a hint, Jack looked towards the kitchen. Jacob got the hint immediately.

"Thea, why don't we go get some of those cookies for Sam and Jack-two-L's, huh?"

Not exactly subtle, but it got the chore done. Dorothea stood with more grace than her teary eyes gave her credit for, and though her hand twitched towards her daughter, she didn't let herself breach the now tangible barrier of tension surrounding Samantha like a cloak.

As they cleared the room she stood, moving to pace even as Jack closed the distance between them. "Samantha—"

"I did not make that name up." She hissed at him, more vehemently than she'd ever spoken to him before. "I didn't!"

"So he's lying?" Jack's query was met with raised brows and a bristling shrug. "Why would he lie about that?"

"Don't ask me!" she countered. "Damn it, without that file you got for me I wouldn't know them from Adam! For all I know they aren't really my parents!"

Jack leveled a stare her way. She tried to meet it with a withering glare, but her cheeks flushed. "Do you really believe that?" Her lips quivered, giving him his answer without her having to say a word. His hand curled around her arm, softening the tone of his voice.

"Talk to me," he urged. Her chin dipped, hiding her eyes beneath the fringe of her bangs. "Samantha…"

"I don't know," she said softly. "The first time, it just slipped out. But when I think about that name, try to place it… I see him. My father."

"I can't think of a reason why he would lie about it," Jack offered.

Samantha shrugged. "Neither can I. The name doesn't even make any sense! Selmak—Is that even English?" Jack grimaced, unwilling to actually answer. Her cheeks flushed again, but he couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or frustration. "I'm not crazy."

"I never said you were," he said quickly. "But… what about your mom. You clammed up real quick, and after your dad…"

Her eyes widened briefly, before she looked away again. "I dunno," she mumbled. He knew her well enough to see the defeat in her features, the disappointment that she'd been unable to provide her parents with what they'd hoped for. "I just—When I look at my dad, he seems familiar. And I can almost remember him. His smile, the way his eyes look when he's trying not to smile. But looking at her… my mother… I don't get that feeling. I see her, but I don't know her."

But when he lifted his hand to comfort her, she shook it away. He accepted the refusal of his touch without malice. "Do you want to leave?" She shrugged. It was then he saw the tell-tale set to her brow. "How's your head?"

Before she had a chance to answer, they were interrupted by the sound of bodies entering the room. Samantha straightened, her distress erasing itself as completely as if it she'd never been bothered at all. But she did nod to him, assuring him of her decision to remain. She was all right.

"Here we go!" Dorothea chirped merrily, pointedly overlooking the dour atmosphere that had taken up residence inside the room. She set a tray of carefully crafted cookies on the coffee table as Samantha resumed her seat on the couch. This time, Jack sat next to her on one side—her mother quickly moved to sit on the far side. Jacob returned to his easy chair, settling into the comfortable cushions with a sigh of old bones. "Macaroons, just the way you like them."

Samantha pulled back, her throat working in disgust. "I don't like macaroons."

Her mother's chipper countenance faltered but for a moment at the blunt declaration. Then she was reaching for one, presumably a sample. Her intent to pass it on to Samantha was clear as day, betrayed by the carefully arranged napkin that soon cushioned it in the palm of her hand.

"Here," she said, her voice rasping ever so slightly. "Try one. You won't know if you like it until you taste it—"

"I said I don't like them."

All trace of humor had vanished, leaving the three of them to face a bare-faced mask of discomfort and resentment glaring back at them from stormy blue eyes. Dorothea froze, stunned at the sudden shift in composure. She glanced at her husband, as though he might have a better idea of what to expect—but he didn't.

"They used to be your favorite—"

"They're not."

Dorothea shared a look with her husband, who was trying to hide his disappointment, and his concern. Apparently, it didn't take long for the fatherly protective instincts to come back from the dead. But her attention quickly returned to her daughter.

"It's all right," she began, gently reaching out to the younger woman. But as soon as her fingers brushed pale skin, they lingered but a moment before Samantha wrenched herself to her feet.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

Jack got to his feet as well, moving smoothly so as not to agitate her further. "Samantha…"

"It's not all right." She wouldn't meet his gaze, and his stomach lurched anxiously. He could see the tension in her features that communicated her sudden headache—one that had come on all too suddenly. "It's not all right. It's not right—"

Blue eyes blinked, halting as if in realization. Comprehension broke through the pain for a brief, heart-stopping moment. "It's not right. It's wrong. You're wrong—"

Her words bit off into a grunt of pain that had Jack fumbling for the bottle of pills in his pocket. Jacob got to his feet, barely able to force himself to keep his distance. Jack asked in a low voice for some tissues, and it was a moment's uncertain hesitation before they were spurred into motion by a muttered curse from Samantha. Her hand flew up to her nose, but it wasn't enough to hide the red glint of a sudden nosebleed.

"Jack…"

Dorothea moved to brace Samantha as she faltered, but her daughter moved as though she wasn't there, reaching past her to find him. He caught her just as she toppled over, losing her balance as her strength failed, and he barely managed to get the pills to her before she lost it completely.

He looked to Dorthea, who stood frozen in shock. "You got a place she can lay down?" he asked, his voice calm despite his racing heart. "Some place dark?"

Her head bobbed in a rapid nod. "The den…" She led the way out of the living room and down the hall, ushering them into a room with no windows. It was warm and dark and quiet… perfect. Jack gently maneuvered Samantha onto the plush couch, and she groaned at the change in orientation. No doubt her headache was worse now, throbbing at every jostle and movement.

"I'll—I'll just…" Dorothea didn't bother to finish her intention. She simply turned to leave—unable to help, and too anxious to simply watch. Guilt played over her features, acknowledging the fact that she had something sparked this… episode.

"Mom…?"

Samantha croaked the name, growing increasingly groggy as the meds took effect. Dorothea froze, taken by surprise. She turned back, and crossed back across the room to kneel at the side of the couch. She touched her daughter's cheek, eager for the contact she had thus far been denied. But as soon as her fingers caressed pale skin, she looked up in alarm. "She's too warm."

"It's all right," he assured her softly. "This happens, sometimes. Part of her head injury." Her eyes tracked to the scars furrowing Samantha's damp brow. "Stress is a factor, but it'll pass. She just needs to rest for a while. She needs to sleep for a while; when she wakes up the meds should have kicked in."

"She needs a cold compress," Dorothea said. She didn't budge from her position though. By now, her daughter's hand had found hers, clutching it tightly even as her eyes clenched shut against the growing pain.

"I'll get it," Jack volunteered, sensing her need to remain.

"Jake can help you," she supplied, trusting her husband to remain level-headed where she could not. He would be concerned, but he would trust in her to take care of Sam. She felt Jack O'Neill nod behind her, and heard him get to his feet. He disappeared with a click of the door latch, leaving her alone with her daughter.


	36. Chapter 36

Thea stroked her daughter's brow, feverish and furrowed in distress. But her heart skipped a beat when blue eyes flickered open, focusing blearily on her face. She wished she couldn't discern the shock and disbelief in those eyes, morphing from one to the other in a flash. Confusion remained throughout, coloring her features and she had to remind herself that no matter how familiar this woman was—she might not know her in the slightest. How much of her daughter remained in this woman?

Her racing thoughts slammed to a halt when a hand pressed hesitantly to her cheek. Fingertips trailed gently along the planes of her face, and Thea met her daughter's gaze, unprepared for the awe that shone up at her. It was as if she were the one that had been lost. She supposed maybe that was accurate. In a way, she and Jacob were as lost to Sam as she'd been to them.

"Mom…"

"Sammie?"

"I'm sorry." Tears escaped her lids, spilling through damp lashes to trail down her cheeks. Thea gently wiped them away even as she fought her own.

She shook her head in an attempt to dispel her daughter's guilt without betraying her own wavering voice. "It's not your fault. You were confused—they warned us…"

The Air Force had warned them that she might not ever remember the last forty years of her life. That she might not ever remember more than the new memories she stood to create. At the time, they'd barely heard anything after "She's agreed to see you," so excited they'd been. But now she wished they had the sense to keep their spirits tempered. Maybe, if they had, it wouldn't hurt so much to be faced with the reality of what had happened to their beautiful little girl.

"I wished for this… To see you…" Sam's whisper was husky, her eyes clouded with pain and confusion. And her lids were heavy—no doubt fighting the effects of the medication. Her fingertips passed over Thea's lips, and Thea captured them, keeping them there as she kissed the callused skin. "You're so beautiful…"

"Sam…" Tears burned at her eyes, and she blinked them back, refusing to let her daughter see them. "It's all right, Sam. You're home now."

Blue eyes slammed shut, but a moment later they pried themselves open. "…Wanted to tell you…always…" She was near sleep now, and her words were muddled, but intelligible.

"Yes, baby?"

"Lo—Love you…"

Thea's breath scraped along her throat against sudden tears, and she could barely hold herself together even as her daughter's frame relaxed into unconsciousness. She sat back on her heels, taking the sudden solitude to pull herself together. But she didn't let go of the hand she held. That she clung to for dear life.

She didn't know how long she sat there, until a shuffle of footsteps at the door jostled her into awareness once more. She looked up to see her daughter's companion, his dark eyes warm and gentle in the dark of the room.

"She's asleep?" he asked, his voice low. She nodded, not trusting her voice. "That's a good thing, ma'am. This happens sometimes… it's nothing to worry about."

He came to crouch at her side, offering her the damp cloth he held in his hand. She took it with a murmur of thanks, pressing it to her daughter's brow. But that brought her attention back to the lengthening trail of blood that oozed slowly from her daughter's nose.

"Doesn't feel that way to me," she said softly, dabbing the blood away with a corner of the cloth. "What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her." The man tried to keep the defensive edge out of his voice, but Thea heard it. Part of her was glad to hear it, but the rest of her had no patience for it.

Her eyes narrowed. "She clearly isn't completely healthy, Mr. O'Neill. I want to know what my daughter is facing."

A moment passed, before the man seemed to relax a fraction. "Call me Jack… I think we're beyond formalities here, ma'am."

She nodded. "You can call me Thea."

Jack nodded. He hesitated, then took a deep but measure breath. "The docs think it's some kind of seizure. It started a couple months back, and they don't know why. The medication helps… We usually catch it before it gets this bad. This one came on quick."

"Because of me," she said, her voice dark.

He shook his head. "We don't know that. She's been under a lot of stress, and not just because of meeting you and your husband. It's been hard, and she's been facing it alone."

"Except for you."

He shrugged. "I've done what I can to make life easier. But in the end… it's her battle. And to be honest—I don't know what to do any more than she does."

But Thea knew the truth. Her daughter was lucky to have a man like this in her life. A friend like him, when she had nothing else…

"We want to be a part of her life," she declared. Being allowed a taste of her… it wasn't enough. She needed more.

One look told her Jack understood. He nodded. "I want you to be. She's lonely, and she deserves more than just a grumpy old man for company." But then he shrugged. "But it'll be her decision how much she lets you be there for her. I can't force her to do anything."

She nodded. "I wouldn't want you to…" She smoothed her daughter's hair from her face, running the pale strands between her fingers. "Do you have children?"

He nodded. "A son... Charlie."

Thea smiled. "That was always Sam's biggest regret. She loved NASA, her work. Space was always her dream, but… her biggest regret was that it kept her from starting a family of her own."

One of the last conversations she'd had with her daughter had been about her lack of family. Thea had only wanted the best for her daughter but… she hadn't realized until it was too late that it wasn't her business. That what Sam needed wasn't blind dates arranged by her parents.

"She told me she would give up NASA if she ever met the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with…" Her voice sounded strangled, even to her own ears, but Jack looked at her with nothing but understanding. "But she never got the chance."

She wondered if maybe now her daughter had that chance. She saw the way this man—this stranger who knew more about her daughter than she did—looked at Sam, always on guard for her. That kind of devotion… It was more than friendship. She could only hope that Sam had allowed herself to feel the same for him.

"Look… she should be out for a couple of hours," Jack told her gently. "But when she wakes up, she's going to be groggy, and irritable. She might be less on edge if you weren't here when she comes to."

Thea felt herself bristling, despite his logic. "I'm her mother—"

"I know that. But she doesn't. And I know her well enough to know that she won't appreciate a stranger seeing her like this. If you aren't here, then odds are she might not even remember that you saw this, period. It might make her more open to interacting with you in the future." Brown eyes looked at her with compassion. "I know it's hard, but I think that's the best option here. You'll just have to trust me."

Despite herself, she did trust him. She had no reason to doubt him, and if he was telling the truth, he knew her daughter's ups and downs better than anyone else. And he understood the need for parents to know their children. And he seemed honest enough. He was military, but not a flunky. He would do right by Sam.

Thea nodded. "You said she'd be out for a few hours…"

"Yeah. Stay until she starts coming to. I'll take over then, but for now… she needs you too."

She offered him a watery smile of gratitude. She ignored her aching knees, prepared to remain as long as he deemed wise. His eyes traveled between the two of them, his features gentle with understanding. He nodded. "I'll go let Jacob know that everything's okay. Are you all right here?"

She hummed an affirmation, turning her attention back to her daughter. She heard him stand and move out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. And so Thea settled in to wait, to be there for her daughter in the only way she knew how. She pressed a kiss to a warm but pale brow, and wiped away her tears.

The muffled voices of Jake and Jack O'Neill traveled back to her through the walls of the den. She couldn't make out their words, but if Thea knew her husband at all, he would accept the bare facts— would Sam be all right?—before falling into a solemn silence to wait. And sure enough, moments later the voices faded.

Thea occupied herself in the following silence by fussing. Where before she cleaned the house, she know focused on Sam, straightening the sling that protected her damaged arm, and daubing the cool washcloth to her brow. She listened to the heavy sounds of her breathing, thanking God for every intake of air she heard. But as time wore on, her eyes began to wander.

While resettling her daughter's slinged arm, the collar of Sam's shirt had fallen open, revealing an expanse of pallid shoulder to her mother's gaze. At first, she didn't make anything of it. But as she looked closer, she realized that the skin was smooth, unmarred by blemish or scar. It took her by surprise, and she blinked several times before her gaze traveled to the opposite shoulder, peeking at the skin there, just in case. But that shoulder was similarly smooth, and was even soft to the touch.

She saw the tracing scar of a healed surgical incision on her protected shoulder, close to the joint, dark and knitted in the dim light of the den. Her stomach turned to ice at the sight of it, Thea's gut churning at the proof of her daughter's mortality. But it wasn't the scar she was looking for.

The time passed quickly, and soon Sammie was stirring, moans catching in her throat as she began to wake. Thea tucked her puzzled thoughts aside, and gracefully removed herself from the room. She had questions now, so many questions, but questions that would only be answered if Sam decided she trusted them enough to let them be a part of her life.

For now, she would trust in the advice of Jack O'Neill, and hope that her daughter would remember enough to know they loved her. In the meantime, she would hold onto the words of her Sammie, whispered and pained and tearful as they were. Somehow, not even the nagging shadow of doubt could douse the hope that sparked at the choked words that assured her of her daughter's love.


	37. Chapter 37

Their daughter didn't stay long, once she awoke. Jacob had held Thea's hand as soon as she stepped out to let Jack assume the vigil. He kissed away his wife's tears, and together they'd waited with bated breath for further word. They were both relieved when their daughter emerged from the den; looking worse for wear, but under her own power.

She told them herself, that she needed to leave. They weren't surprised, but Jacob was proud that she hadn't taken the easy way out. It would have been a simple task to let O'Neill-two-L's do the deed, but Jacob Carter hadn't raised his daughter to shy away from the uncomfortable moments in life. The fact she'd met his eye when she declared her intention to leave had made his heart swell, despite the disappointment of her departure.

And on the way out, O'Neill met Thea's gaze with a knowing look that made Jacob wonder what they'd talked about when they'd been alone with Sam in the den. It was a silent promise, one that his wife accepted with a nod of gratitude and relief. Together, they watched their daughter walk away, climbing into the truck with shaky, exhausted movements.

"Jake… there's something—" Thea's voice trailed off. She was uncertain.

He looked at her profile. She was still staring after Sam. Scrutinizing. "Thea?"

"Do you remember the time Sam got her hair tangled in the curling iron?"

Jacob blinked. "Ho, yeah… That was one visit to the emergency room I did not enjoy." But the misery of the memory turned to a chortle shortly thereafter. "And the first week of the ridiculous haircut she had to get afterwards wasn't exactly a joyride."

Sammie had hated that pixie cut. It had been necessary, to disguise the damage of the curling iron, and eventually she'd come to live with it. But she'd never ever cut it that short again. Jacob would be hard pressed to say he'd seen it shorter than her shoulders, even when she went through the Academy.

Thea tilted her head. "She burned her shoulder so badly..." she reminded him. "A second degree burn. She had that horrible scar. She still had it the day she…" Her voice caught in her chest. "The day she died."

Jacob gripped her hand tighter. "She's not dead, Thea. She's alive."

But Thea couldn't look at him. "Is she, Jake? She's lost everything that makes her who she was."

He shook his head. "No. There are some things that never leave you. Those things haven't left her, not completely. I know my little girl, Thea. She's in there, somewhere." He turned to face her completely.

"I don't care if she doesn't ever remember," he said solemnly. "She's our daughter, and I'm not going let her… condition, or whatever the hell the doctors call it, get in the way of me getting to know her again. It won't keep me from loving her."

Thea nodded, her gaze trailing back to the truck as it rumbled down the street. Jake made sense, and was reacting the only way he knew how. Sam was his pride and joy; she'd filled every single expectation he'd had, and then some. Mark had gone in the opposite direction, and while the two men had come to a sort of peace in the recent years, he would never hold the same place in Jacob Carter's heart like Sam did. They had a bond, one that would blind him to nearly any shortcoming.

And even she didn't really understand it either. She didn't even know how to begin to make sense of it. It was madness, what she now suspected- or a horrible, sick joke.

All she knew was that the woman who'd called her "Mom" was missing a scar on her shoulder.


	38. Chapter 38

There was something missing.

Samantha glanced around her, searching as though whatever it was would be within reach. But of course, if that were truly the case, then it wouldn't be missing, now would it?

She stared at the crockpot in front of her, racking her brain for the answer. Her lips spread into a grin as the light clicked on. Thyme. It needed thyme.

Within moments she was rummaging through the spice drawer for the elusive herb, and crowed in triumph when she found it. She was just throwing a pinch of it into the crockpot when a knock on the door caught her attention.

She hesitated only a moment, wiping her hands on a towel before going to investigate. She was a little wary, ever since the press release—the last thing she wanted was to be hounded by reporters in her own home. They'd been lucky so far, but it would only last so long, and every additional day of privacy they had put her a little more on edge.

But it was only Charlie.

"Hey!" she said brightly, honestly glad to see the younger man. She met him with a smile as she opened the door to him. She stood aside to let him enter, which he did with his hands tucked modestly into his pockets. "What are you doing here? Your dad's not here, he's at a meeting…"

Charlie blinked, but then shrugged. "That's okay, actually… I was looking for you."

"Really? Is something wrong?"

A laugh answered her. "No, nothing's wrong. It's just—well, you know how you mentioned red shift theory the other night at dinner?"

"Yeah," she hedged carefully. She remembered. Their second attempt at having a family dinner had been everything the first hadn't—easy, familiar, and thoroughly enjoyable. She honestly couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so much in one night.

"Well," Charlie delivered, his tone edging into pride, "there's a film about it going up at the local Imax theater that's supposed to be really good. I was wondering if you might want to get out of the house for a few hours to go see it with me."

Samantha blinked in pleasant surprise. But as soon as the warmth of excitement came it was gone again. A movie would mean going somewhere crowded. With lots of people. They would stare. And then they would know. They would know she lived in the area, and after that it would only be a matter of time before the press found the house, and then it'd be over. The quiet little life they had would be finished.

Except it was already over, wasn't it? She wasn't happy here anymore. Not really. Little by little the comfort she'd found here had slipped away until she was left feeling like she was strung as tight as a piano wire. Even with Jack, her happiness felt more nostalgic than it felt true.

Maybe this quiet little life wasn't what she wanted after all. Maybe it would do her good to get some fresh air, and some fun. Besides, the theater would be dark, right? No one would stare at her there, at least.

She made the decision silently, sure in her choice when she did answer him. "Sure? Why not?" The stew she had going would be all right in the pot until she got back. "Just let me call your dad and let him know, all right?"

Charlie nodded agreeably, his features spreading into a beaming grin. To be honest, her call served multiple purposes. She did want to let him know where she'd be, so that he didn't panic when he came home and found her gone. But she also wanted his permission. Not to leave the house, necessarily, but to spend the time alone with Charlie. She didn't want to step on any toes.

But it turned out her concern was irrelevant. She was able to detect the smile in his voice as he quipped a "Make him buy you dinner after!" and it was only then that she embraced her newest mission completely. And Charlie was the perfect gentleman.

He waited patiently until she could put on some fresher clothes, and throw on a baseball cap and a pair of Ray-bans. Again, her actions served a double-purpose. The hat and shades would not only help stave off potential migraines, but protect her identity as well. Maybe not by much, but maybe enough to make a difference.

Charlie got her to the theater without incident—she'd grown familiar with the neighborhood in the past weeks. It was smaller than she'd originally anticipated, insular and self-contained in that she was soon able to recognize faces. Sometimes she earned stares, but she'd never gathered enough courage to break the stigma that was her identity. She remained separate from them, reluctant and afraid to risk cueing the unwelcome intrusion of curious press and news seekers.

In the end, it was waiting in line for tickets that got her into trouble. Charlie was wonderful, keeping her occupied with tales of his college exploits so that she didn't get overwhelmed. But even his efforts were for naught when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

Swallowing her sudden apprehension she glanced over her shoulder at the intruder—only to find empty space next to her. Confusion washed over her briefly, before the tug on her sleeve came again. She looked down, discovered that the source of her trepidation was none other than Lily, the girl from Mrs. Anderson's fourth grade class.

"Hi!" she breathed in relief. "Lily, what are you doing here?"

"Who's he?" Little eyes glanced up at Charlie in curiosity, who shrugged to allow Samantha to keep the situation in hand.

Samantha reminded herself to thank him later. "He's a friend of mine," she answered, before kneeling down to the little girl's level. "Lily, where are your parents?"

The girl glanced around, but inevitably shrugged. The lack of concern told Samantha all she needed to know. "Do they know you came to say hello?"

Lily shook her head no. "Miss Carter, we had to do a project on you this week in school. I drew a picture of you—my mom put it on the fridge with a spaceship magnet. I got an A!"

"That's great, Lily," Samantha said warmly. But her eyes continued to scan the milling crowds. The previous movie had just let out, and the chaos was growing. "But your parents are going to be worried about you. Let's go find them, okay?"

"But I'm not with any strangers!" Lily countered. "I'm with you!"

Samantha's cheeks flushed. "I know that, and you know that… but your parents don't—"

"Lily!" A frantic shout interrupted her, and the sound of running feet approached. "Lily, don't you dare run off like that again! I am so sorry she bothered you—"

Samantha rose to her feet, placing her hand on Lily's shoulder. A woman slowed to a stop in front of them, her eyes wide with worry. "It's all right," Sam delivered smoothly. "I visited her class a few weeks ago…"

She trailed off as she saw Lily's mother's eyes widen even further, and her features flush with shocked embarrassment. The spark of recognition made Samantha's stomach fall out from under her.

"You're—" The woman stuttered, as though she couldn't catch her breath. "Oh my—" A nervous laugh spilled from her throat. "My goodness, she hasn't stopped talking about that afternoon since!"

Lily tugged on her mother's hand. "Mom! Mom, where's Dad? He's gotta meet her!"

"Your father is currently getting security, young lady. You scared us half to death!" Her mother met Samantha's gaze with an apologetic grimace. "I do need to let him know she's all right. I'm sure you have things to get to today—I'm so sorry…"

"Please, it's fine—"

She felt Charlie approach her from the side, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. "The movie's about to start…"

"Please Miss Carter, you have to meet my dad! He'd want to see you, I know it!" Lily was pulled aside by her mother, a scold quick in coming. But Samantha looked at the little girl, and found herself hesitating.

"We can catch the next one, though," Charlie's low rumble amended. She looked over at him to see an easy grin on his face. "You know, if you want to."

The man was as perceptive as his father. A dangerous quality for him to have, but one that made her decision easier.

"Miss Carter has better things to do than follow you around, Lily—"

"Actually," Samantha cut in politely, pulling the woman's attention back up to her, "we have some time to kill. And I'd like make sure there isn't any misunderstanding. I really don't mind that Lily came over to say hello."

By now, her baseball cap wasn't doing much to hide her identity. Between Lily's loud exclamation and the growing proximity of the crowd, she could feel the stares growing, and leaving the general vicinity wasn't too bad an idea.

"Oh, well…" Lily's mother hesitated, surprised by her offer. "All right then. I'm Laura, by the way. Laura Garrison."

Samantha smiled, suddenly at ease. She didn't know why, but her words left her lips with the greatest of ease. "Samantha Carter," she returned. "Pleased to meet you."

The way Charlie's hand brushed hers as they turned away from the theater made her think that maybe he read into the situation more than anyone else might have. But when she looked up at him as Lily caught hold of her other hand and began to pull her along, he only grinned. "You didn't tell me you had your own fan club."

She smiled lightly in response, her hand coming up to brush lightly against his arm. "Thank you," she said softly.

A shrug answered her. "Ah… something tells me this is more important than some movie, anyway."

Somehow… she couldn't help but agree with him. For the first time in her memory, she was meeting someone new—as herself.

When Jack got the text from Charlie alerting him that plans had changed—ice cream instead of a movie—he didn't think anything of it. But when he finally managed to escape the endless round of meetings on base and went to join them, what he found was certainly not what he expected.

Well, he hadn't really had a fully formed idea of what he'd discover. Perhaps the two of them in a secluded corner, munching on sundaes while they spoke in low tones so as not to attract unwanted attention. Or the two of them sitting outside, with Samantha's cap low over her eyes in a pretense to shield herself from the sun.

Instead he was faced with a scene out of an after-school special. Samantha and his son were munching on sundaes, yes. But it wasn't in a corner or on a lonely bench. It was a table in the center of the dairy parlor—or rather, several tables joined together to accommodate the large party they were a part of.

Charlie reclined in a chair across the table from Samantha, who had attracted the younger element of the crowd. A girl sat on her lap—a girl from the class they'd visited. What was her name… Lavender, Jack thought. Maybe.

The girl was bouncing in the way kids do, excited and rambling at a hundred words per minute. On either side of both of them were more kids, some recognizable, some not. The parents lingered on the periphery, more as chaperones than anything else. Most of them wore the same t-shirt, declaring them as some kind of field trip group. But what caught Jack's eye the most was the easy grin that split Samantha's features, both as she fielded questions from Lilac and the other kids, and spoke with the nearest adults.

She was comfortable, more so than he would have thought possible. And the adults, to their credit, seemed respectful. He imagined that they might have begun aloof, wary. But Samantha had that charm, and no doubt they'd gravitated to her just as inevitably as the kids had.

After a long moment of staring, Jack shuttered his awe away and entered the fine dining establishment, making a beeline for the conglomerate of tables. Blue eyes tracked his movements from the second he stepped through the door, and he raised a single brow in question as he approached.

Her only answer was a sheepish grin and a shrug. The blush to her cheeks didn't escape his notice either. A few of the parents perked up at his arrival, recognizing him from his trips around town in the early months. He greeted them, but didn't pull to a stop until he was up behind Samantha, and she was looking up at him with that same guilty smile.

He stared for a moment, thinking of a quip, but the best he could come up with was to bend down and peck her quick on the lips. He lingered on her level for a moment, eyeing the kid on her lap.

"She found me at the theater," Samantha explained lightly. "Wanted me to meet her parents, and it kinda… turned into this."

He bet the story behind this one was gonna be good. But he let it slide, content to wait until they were home before pressing her for the juicy details. He leveled a cock-eyed grin at her. "Kid's a good judge of character," he told her smoothly. The kid in question turned and caught his eye. "You know you have the best seat in the house, right?"

The kid nodded jauntily, her sticky lips beaming in a smile. "Uh huh!"

Jack returned the nod in approval. "Good." He turned back to Samantha, shooting her a knowing look. "No, we can't keep her."

She smacked him lightly on the arm, her lips twisting into a smirk. "Funny."

Jack pulled up a chair, and settled in to scoop up a bite of a hot fudge-slathered sundae he assumed was hers. And then he let himself get sucked into the conversation, both kiddie and adult alike. Neither of them felt the eyes watching them from across the square.

Daniel rocked back on his heels, trying to remain inconspicuous. When he'd first seen Sam, he'd been amazed. She looked great, in the sense he hadn't seen her in person for almost eight months now. And she wasn't limping anymore, and in the natural light of day, her scars didn't seem so bad. The nagging concern of how she got those scars hadn't faded since the national broadcast, but for now he could focus on the way she smiled.

But whom she smiled at made his gut churn. A kid, barely more than twenty. But after following that kid for two weeks, there was no doubt who it was. Charlie. A kid he'd only before seen in pictures, his life arrested at age seven, existing only in memories and old photographs, but never forgotten. His heart hurt, seeing the young man that Jack—his Jack—could only ever dream his kid could be become. The knowledge that the real Jack could only be proud of what would have been was a bittersweet comfort.

Cam didn't really get it. He knew the facts, the truth of the matter was that he didn't really know Jack O'Neill, and therefore really didn't understand the gravity of the situation. So when they had devoted themselves to first sitting on the Kawalsky household, and waiting for Charlie to visit, Daniel had to deal with his own jangling nerves as well as Mitchell's innocent, yet grating antics as he tried to keep himself occupied.

"Something's fishy," Cam said now, low over Daniel's shoulder. Daniel bit back a sharp retort. Ya think?

Instead he kept his gaze focused on the ice cream parlor, and the crowd within. They'd followed Charlie expecting him to lead them to Jack—instead they saw him emerge from the quiet house on the quiet street in suburban Chicago with a figure that was decidedly not Jack. It was Sam. And there wasn't any of the awkward reverence he would have expected her to exhibit in the presence of the prodigal son.

She was smiling, bumping up against Charlie like she used to bump elbows with Daniel himself. It reminded him of the old days, of the real timeline, and it wasn't long before the nostalgia turned to anger. For months he'd been alone, rotting in some one bedroom efficiency in the pits of Los Angeles. And she's been here, playing family with Jack and his son.

If it was safe for her to know Jack, why hadn't she sent word? Why hadn't she tried to contact them? It just didn't make any sense.

"What do you want to do?" Cam asked.

What Daniel wanted to do was storm in there, grab her by the arm and shake her until she spilled everything, but he knew they couldn't do anything so brash. They'd seen how the little girl had immediately attached herself to Sam's side, and then how the rest of the kids had been drawn in. It had happened gradually, until the field trip had shown up. By then Sam had resigned herself to her fate, and had welcomed everyone who had approached her.

It was weird, seeing it unfold. Sure, Sam was friendly, but she was usually more guarded. That same guardedness had been present at the theatre, before she'd taken the leap to join the girl's family. But by the time they hit the ice cream shop, it had evaporated, leaving Sam more open than ever before. It was… bizarre. And it made him wonder.

But regardless of why she was acting the way she was, the fact was that her current circumstances prevented them from doing anything. What were they gonna do? Barge through the kids to assault her in front of a dozen parents to boot? Not a chance. They needed to do this subtly. Sam might be different, but so was Jack. They couldn't trust him. Not yet.

"We wait," Daniel said finally. "We can't approach her now. We need to wait until we can get her alone."

Cam sighed, his impatience tangible. "Fine. We wait."


	39. Chapter 39

"So are you going to tell me what you have planned?"

Jack smirked at her, but remained stubbornly silent.

"Oh, come on, Jack, you have been teasing me all day!"

"All good things come to those who wait!" he chirped happily. She leaned into him, unable to keep the grin off her face.

Another couple passed them on the sidewalk, and the female of the pair waved. "Hi Samantha, good morning Jack…"

"Hi, Emily," Samantha greeted back. Tommy's parents. No doubt doing some last minute holiday shopping.

"Jack."

"Frank."

The men's greeting was a bit more stoic, but they'd gotten used to it. At least Jack had. Ever since that fateful ice cream sundae, the entire town had come to recognize Samantha as a regular fixture. She and Jack had both been nervous, but instead of cueing the loss of privacy, life had continued as normal for both of them. The only thing that had changed was the fact that now Samantha didn't like to linger at home.

Without the fear of going out in public, their daily walks had gotten longer, and gone farther, and was accompanied by several greetings from those they passed. The neighborhood had come to claim her as one of their own, it seemed, and were willing to let her maintain the normalcy she'd found there among them.

But even as their new friends continued on their way, Jack bit back a yelp when slender fingers pinched him playfully. "Tell me," she threatened, though the growl in her voice was neutralized by the giggle that followed.

"No giggling," he warned. She poked him. Jeez, the disrespect… "All right, all right." He pulled to a stop, swinging her around to face him. Their hips met, and their noses almost touched, her grin dazzling. "I just gotta do one more thing, and then I'll tell you."

Her brows lifted. "Then let's go," she murmured softly.

"Oh no," he countered, determined to remain strong against the glint in her eye. "You gotta stay here."

"What?" She feigned hurt. "You're gonna make me stand here in the cold all by myself?"

He shook his head, not buying it in the slightest. "It'll take two seconds, and it's part of the surprise." He glanced over her shoulder, taking in the several pairs of eyes scattered across the square, watching them with twinkling smiles. "Besides, I think you'll be all right without me for a few minutes."

He saw her glance over her shoulder, and she giggled again, pressing closer against him as her cheeks flushed. "Small towns, huh?"

"Oh yeah," he said, kissing her briefly. "Chicago's as small as they come."

"Oh, go on," she urged, shoving him lightly. Her smile didn't fade. "The sooner you get done, the sooner you can spill."

Priorities. He liked that in a woman. He departed with a wink, leaving her to occupy herself while he went about his business. When he took one last look back before he dipped into a store, she was gazing up into the grey-cloaked sky, squinting against the light seeping through the dense cloud cover.

She was beautiful even bundled up against the cold like she was, with her hands tucked in her coat pockets and her scarf bunched up under her chin. He really was luckiest man alive.

Samantha looked up into the sky, but she couldn't say for sure what she was searching for. Not snow—too mild for that. But the air was just cool enough to be crisp, and she loved the bite of the chill in her cheeks.

"Sam?"

She twisted sharply, turning to look towards the unexpected voice drifting over her shoulder. She was faced with two men she didn't know. Both were brown-haired—one lighter and one darker—and the one with glasses perched on his nose was looking at her warily. As if she were the one that couldn't be trusted.

It struck her as odd, and set her on edge. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, you can help us," the lighter-haired man declared. The one with glasses stared, studying her. "You can tell us what the heck is going on here!"

"Excuse me?"

Daniel was suddenly hesitant. He'd hoped she would be as relieved to see him as he was to see her. But when she'd turned to look at him, her eyes had failed to light up with excitement. In fact, there hadn't been anything beyond a startled blink. There hadn't been so much as a glimmer of recognition.

"Sam…" he said, his voice careful. "What're you doing here?"

Blue eyes darted between him and Cam, confusion melting into distrust and skepticism. "Look, if you're from the press, I'm not doing interviews today. I'm with my family—"

"We're not press, for god's sake!" Cam blurted, gesticulating loudly. But Daniel stepped forward, pulling her attention away from the agitated flyboy.

"Look, Sam, it's us here…" he said.

But still she took a step back, regaining the distance between them. "I can see that…"

Daniel looked at her, with her wary apprehension and growing fear. Fear of them. "Sam… what happened?"

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"You don't recognize us, do you?"

Mitchell pulled back abruptly. "Jackson, what the heck are you going on about? Of course she recognizes us—"

"Am I supposed to?" Sam looked at them sharply. Her eyes were suddenly shadowed, almost pained. Her hand lifted to brush the bangs from her eyes. His gaze was drawn to the glimpse of scar lingering below her hairline, and Daniel finally understood.

"Oh my god…"

Cam looked between the two of them, his gaze bouncing back and forth. "What? What's—look, we don't have time for this. Sam, we gotta go—"

He reached out before Daniel could stop him, catching hold of Sam's arm to pull her away. But she reacted quicker than Daniel, and she wrenched her wrist from Cam's grip with cry that was part alarm, part pain.

But before Daniel could make another move, a tall figure planted itself between them and Sam, eclipsing her from view. Daniel knew without looking up who it was, bristling with anger and devoted protection.

"I should have known."

Jack couldn't help but grin at himself. His plan was perfect. All he had to do was pay and then get Samantha and get her to the place he had in mind. But just before he got up to the counter, the person behind him gave him a tap on the shoulder.

"Hey, Jack… you know those two guys?" Jack followed the pointing finger towards the center of the square. He recognized Samantha right away, but it a long moment before he placed the two figures accosting her.

Oh shit… Jack shoved his intended purchase in the Samaritan's hand, mumbling a "Thanks, Jim" before exiting the store at a dead sprint. He covered the distance in moments, ignoring his bad knees, until he was between Samantha and the two men.

Her hands fell to his hips, drawing her body closer as her arms tensed, readily accepting his guard while prepared to shove him out of harm's way if need be. It was a welcome reassurance, but it didn't back Jack down from the ledge he felt himself on. His entire world hung on the precipice, and his heart stuttered in his chest in dread.

The look that four-eyes was giving him told Jack that there was no way this was going to end well. What was his name—Jackson, maybe. Daniel Jackson.

"Is there a problem here?" he growled.

Jackson's eyes glinted behind his glasses, but it was the other one, Mitchell who answered him. "Yeah, there's a problem—"

Daniel cut him off, smacking the back of his hand against his friend's chest with almost absent-minded effort. But Jack recognized that it was not absent-mindedness, but intense focus. Focus that was centered on him alone.

"What did you do?" The accusation came low and heavy, abhorrence nearly tangible.

Jack narrowed his glare, eyeing the man with distaste. "You better be very careful about what you say next," he warned.

"What did you do?" came the demand again, this time with anger rolling off the man in waves. "What did you do to her?"

A deceptively strong hand slammed into Jack's chest, pushing him back against Samantha, who was a solid rock at his back. She shouted in his defense, but Jack threw out an arm to keep her safe behind him.

"Whoa, Jackson!" Mitchell exclaimed in surprise, moving to pull him back, but Jackson threw him off.

"No, Jack! What did you do?" Samantha's hands tightened on Jack's waist, even as Mitchell tried to make eye contact with her.

His crew-cut head jerked towards her, beckoning for her to join them. "C'mon Sam—"

"Don't call me that." Her voice was flat and hard, nonplussed. She moved out from behind Jack, drawing even with him. "Only my family calls me that."

Daniel's eyes widened, in shock and betrayal, before narrowing at Jack. "Did you brainwash her? Is that it?"

"Hey!" Jack shouted, cutting him off. "Watch it!"

But Daniel ignored him, focusing instead on Samantha herself. "Sam—"

"Stop it!" she growled. "I don't know you!"

"Don't you?" he countered swiftly. "Look at me! Sam, look at me—you do know us. You do!"

Blue eyes widened, frozen in deer-in-the-headlights shock. Jack felt his gut drop out from under him. He didn't dare move; he could barely breathe. And even though he was half-expecting it, the sight of blood still rocked him to the core.

"Sam?" Jackson's voice was suddenly wary, concerned. He took a step forward, only for Samantha to stagger back, her hand coming dazedly to her nose, swiping ineffectually at the nosebleed. "What's wrong?"

Jack moved to face her, supporting her by the arms as she listed slightly. He planted his back firmly in Jackson's line of sight, so that he couldn't see her. So neither of them could see her. "Samantha," he said, his voice low. "Where are your pills?"

She blinked sluggishly, her eyes slightly unfocused. "Ah… I don't—I don't know…"

Jack closed his eyes, flashing back to that morning, placing the bottle of pills on the counter and shouting for her to remember to put them in her pocket before leaving. And then he saw them still there, sitting uselessly in an empty house. He made a mental note to not leave the amnesiac in charge of remembering to pack stuff.

"C'mon. We're leaving," he said. She nodded, decidedly off kilter. Jack swallowed the lump of dread in his throat; the episodes were getting more and more abrupt, and now they were without the aid of the medication. He had to get her home, and now.

"Where are you taking her?" Daniel demanded, sliding himself into their path. But Jack shoved him aside, his patience beyond gone. But the man was dogged, and Jack was pulled back, the hand on his arm steely and unforgiving. "No. You're not taking her—"

"You need to step away, right now," Jack growled, stepping into Jackson's space with a menacing glare. But damn if the man only wavered slightly, before the determination returned with implacable resolve. Jack opted to keep moving, feeling Samantha sag more heavily against him.

"Jack…" The sound of her voice made Jackson pause, his eyes darting to her.

Jack gave him a pointed look, then kept moving. The other man hesitated briefly, but when he moved to follow once more, he found himself faced with a number of townspeople who had put themselves between him and their neighbors. Some were attempting to be subtle, but others glared defiantly at them. A few even had their cell phones out, theirs fingers poised to dial 9-1-1.

Either way, there was no way he could push through to catch up with his friend.

"This isn't over!" Daniel shouted. "Sam!" She didn't look back, but he could only pray she heard him anyway. "Sam, we'll find you! I promise!"  
R


	40. Chapter 40

Somewhere between the square and the house, Samantha passed out. Jack was driving, and over the engine he heard her give a shocked gasp. He looked over at her, only to find her head lolling and her eyes closed. He grabbed her hand, but it was clammy and limp, a touch that made his blood run cold.

The only reassurance that she was merely unconscious was the thrum of her pulse beneath his fingers. It was the only thing that kept him from taking her straight to the hospital. That and his reluctance to put her at the mercy of the government before he knew what kind of damage the impromptu reunion between the three friends had caused.

He wasn't stupid. His thoughts swirled as he carried her into the house, and laid her in the bed. The arrival of Mitchell and Jackson put all three of them at risk. Even if Samantha didn't know who they were, the feds could deem her a threat anyway. He didn't even want to think about that possibility.

But even as he settled in to sit in vigil, he couldn't feign his optimism for long. The longer she remained unresponsive, the more his concern grew. This episode lasted longer than any she'd had since the first one. He blamed it on the fact he had failed to get her home before she lost consciousness, thereby preventing her from getting a dose of her meds. But a part of him wondered if even the meds would have been able to prevent this one.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, his apprehension grew. She remained motionless, silent save for a moan here and there, startling him each and every time. But when morning dawned and still her eyes didn't open, Jack eventually took a break from his anxious vigil to splash some water on his face at the bathroom sink. He avoided looking in the mirror, knowing he wouldn't be able to stomach what he saw. He could almost pretend it was the dark circles and stubbled chin that turned his stomach.

Flipping the bathroom light off as he stepped back into the bedroom, it was several moments as his adjusted to the natural gloom before he realized that the bed was empty. Panic hit like a freight train, and his thoughts immediately jumped to the promise Jackson had shouted after them in the square. Had they followed them here?

He rushed out of the bedroom, flipping the lights on as he went. His fears were assuaged slightly when he found her, gazing dazedly at their home. Her hand was raised, shielding her eyes from the sudden light he'd turned on, and he immediately moved to turn it off again, an apology on his lips.

"No, it's all right," she said softly, her voice shaky. But her hand lowered, as though to prove that his concern for her expected migraine was unfounded. She turned to face him, her blue eyes devoid of the usual grogginess that followed her episodes.

He stepped closer to her, his concern refusing to dissipate completely. "How are you feeling?"

She turned away again, moving as though to go to the kitchen. To get something to drink, Jack figured. Sometimes, the episodes left her parched. "Good," she said.

Her voice sounded strange. Detached, as though she were still asleep. A chill ran down his spine. He blamed it on the drafty house, and took the opportunity to fiddle with the thermostat. He had to turn his back on her, and as soon as he did he could breathe again.

"Better than I have since the accident…" Her voice gained clarity, but remained flat. Jack felt his gut turn to solid ice, and he heard her next words before they were uttered. "Since the car accident."

Jack froze, his blood stopping in his veins. His gut dropped like a stone, shattering his perfect little world on its way.

She felt empty, hollow. Like the world had pulled the rug out from under her and left her to free fall. But that sensation was familiar, recent—and she knew this time, it wasn't the world that had left her like this. It was a man—her man. But as she continued to think, she realized… Jack wasn't really hers.

She saw his face, laced with concern and guilt, and it spiraled into a deluge of images flashing through her mind. She saw that face smiling, smirking knowingly at her. She saw it blank with confusion in response to something she said, and even heavy with heartbreak about… something he lost. She couldn't remember what, though.

Those features had been memorized long ago—she'd known them tired and happy, sweaty and beaten, but more importantly she knew them shining with love and devotion. But the warmth that spread through her turned to ice as she realized that she hadn't seen any of that in this house. In this lifetime. Two different men, in two different worlds, who both tried to love her.

Something in her shattered when she realized she had dishonored her vows to one by loving the other.

Tears poured down her cheeks, and a moan escaped her lips. Jack immediately moved to comfort her, but she pulled away from him, unable to stomach the thought of his touch. He pulled back abruptly, startled and hurt by her disgust.

"What those men said…"

She couldn't hear the rest of his words. Her thoughts were already racing, speeding off to the day before. They locked on the men who had accosted her in the square, the two men who had been strangers mere hours before. But now she knew. She knew those men better than she knew this Jack.

The one with glasses, especially. She knew him, better than she knew herself. He was her brother, her friend, her confidant. David… No, that wasn't it.

Dan… Danny. No. Dan-iel. Daniel.

Daniel Jackson.

And Cam. Holy Hannah. Cam had been there too. He felt less familiar than Daniel, but the deep-seated affection she held for both of them was tangible. It was there; she could feel it, almost taste it. And with that comprehension came the assurance that the rest of the cobwebs clouding her mind would be peeled away, if only she could see them—talk to them—again. They would explain everything.

They wouldn't lie to her. Even if they tried, she'd know it. She knew them.

"I have to find them," she muttered, moving past Jack towards the bedroom.

He faltered slightly, stunned, and then angry. "Find who? Find them? Jackson and Mitchell… you can't!"

"Yes, I can!" she countered. "I have before. I've lost them before, but I've always found them." Somehow, she knew that.

"Both of them are gonna be in violation of their WITSEC agreements, Samantha. They'll be apprehended and incarcerated. If you're with them, you will be too!"

Sam turned on him, her eyes blazing. "I don't care!" she shouted. "I don't care what happens. I need to talk to them—"

"If they resist arrest, they'll be shot." Jack's voice was suddenly heavy. "It's not safe…"

But Sam was far from frightened. Her eyes narrowed, determination solid in her chest, bolstering her decision. "I'd rather die with them than live a lie with you."

His breath came more heavily, more quickly. Sam wondered if he was angry. She hurt him, yes, but this was somehow more than that. Brown eyes searched hers.

"It wasn't a lie. This thing between us… it's not a lie." In his voice crept an edge of desperation, the need for her to understand. But her heart was cold, chilled by the certainty of betrayal that was growing even now. She didn't understand all of it, but the bare-faced truth was more than enough.

"There is no us," she told him. "There's me, and there's you. No us."

Sam met his gaze for a moment, but then pushed past him. She needed distance. Suddenly it felt like she couldn't breathe, and her head was pounding. The world was screaming at her all at once, and she couldn't separate the voices from the chaos.

"I don't even know you—"

Suddenly there was a hand on her arm, yanking her hard to spin her around. He pulled her close, so close she could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his frame. He'd never raised a hand to her, never once been remotely violent. But it was a moment before he seemed to realize that he was lucky to have pulled on her good arm.

His touch softened, his features suddenly tender, and she was too shocked to move away. His hand lingered on her arm as she looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Yes, you do." His voice was perilously calm. Like he was on the verge of an explosion, and the only thing keeping him together was her. A memory flashed in front of her eyes, of him in a black cap, kept from her by a shimmering blue barrier. He was scared.

"You didn't," he continued, his words low. "Not before. But you do now. You know me."

Sam took one breath, then two. She did want to stay; he was safe and familiar. But he was safe and familiar for all the wrong reasons. And even as she looked at him, she witnessed memories of his doppelganger: a man so achingly similar, but so heart-breakingly different.

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks anew. "But you don't know me," she told him. She took a deep breath. "And you're not my husband."

His eyes widened, first in surprise, then in betrayal. But that betrayal quickly melted into guilt, when he remembered that it wasn't her fault she'd been unable to tell him the truth. That he was the one to pull her into their unwitting affair.

Silence pulled between them. Jack's cheeks flushed, but the anger wasn't there. She could almost hear his heart racing, even through the roaring in her ears as the world tilted around her. His lips parted, but his voice failed him, unable to utter the protest that would have done nothing to resolve his guilt.

"You son of a bitch." The words ground against her throat, searing his ears and flushing his cheeks. "You aren't him…"

Suddenly, she was on the street, months ago in an alley next to a cafe, the same words tearing from her throat in heartbroken anguish. Not him.

It was so twisted, so inconceivable that Sam's head spun. She needed to find the others. That Daniel, and Cam. They would have answers for her. They would tell her why something she didn't understand could make her feel so sick to her stomach.

"I have to go…" She started moving again, but he trailed after her.

"Samantha, please, don't do this…"

"I have to—"

"No, you don't. Even if you don't stay for me... What about your parents?"

Sam froze. "My mother…" Her voice was a whisper, a lump in her throat.

"She just got her daughter back. They both did." Jack's voice was somber. It was a low blow, but she could hear the desperation in his tone.

She shook her head, refusing to look at him. "They got an imposter. I'm not their daughter. Their daughter was a hero."

"So are you," Jack countered, sensing he almost had a way in. "You could give them the closure they deserve."

A deep breath steadied Sam, keeping her tears at bay. "My mother died in a car accident when I was sixteen," she delivered, her voice calmer than she felt. "I was making cookies when my dad came home and told me the news."

Jack froze. That explained her reaction that night they first tried to have dinner with Charlie. The same reaction that had sparked her first seizure. And now he knew why she'd had such an aversion to Dorothea Carter.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could offer her.

She shrugged. "So was I. But I came to peace with it a long time ago."

Under the words he could hear the undercurrent of anguish; maybe she had come to peace with it, but she'd had the chance to see her mother grown old, with a full life to her name. And she hadn't even recognized it for what it was.

"They would have come to peace with it too, if you hadn't done what you did. Don't you dare try to pin that on me."

A biting edge sharpened her tone and her temper, her eyes glaring daggers. "I didn't start this," she continued venomously. "But I'm ending it. I'm not going to be your puppet."

With that she turned from him and vanished into the bedroom. Jack remained behind, unable to follow her again. He heard her opening drawers, but not one of them closed. She was moving swiftly, unwilling to waste another moment. He could sense her haste, her urgent need to leave. Leave the house, and leave him.

It hurt. More than he thought it could. But his thoughts swirled violently. It was happening too fast; he could barely comprehend it. He wasn't sure she remembered everything, but it didn't really matter, did it? She recalled enough to know him for the fraud he was.

When she finally emerged, she had a duffel slung over her good shoulder. She looked to him briefly, before her gaze darkened and fell away. He didn't even try to discern the myriad of emotions lurking in her eyes in the split second, knowing he wouldn't like what he found if he did.

"Where will you go?" he asked, his voice husky.

She shrugged. "I don't know."

He moved closer to her, trying to be wary of her hunched shoulders, her discomfort. But he needed her to hear him now. "Please, don't do this. Think about it—"

"If you were him, you'd know I already have."

Jack's teeth ground together, biting back his growing frustration. "Be smart about this—"

"Again… I am." Her lips lifted in a mirthless smirk, her gaze minutely unfocused as if her attention had pulled inside her. Remembering. "It's kind of my thing."

Jack pulled in a shuddering breath. "Please…"

She shook her head. "I need to find them. I'm going to find them. I need answers, answers only they can give me."

"I can get those same answers." He could. He could get the tapes of their interrogation, at the base in Alaska. He could learn her history just as he had the Mission Commander's. He could give her the answers she needed, if that was what she wanted.

Her lips twisted, almost a sneer. But there was a sadness there too, one that broke his heart.

"I wouldn't believe you. Not now." Her lips pressed together as she swallowed the tension in her throat. "And I would rather leave while I can at least understand why you did it… before I start to hate you for it."

"Samantha…"

"I don't owe you anything." Jack's breath caught in his chest, but then her eyes softened. "Actually, that's not true," she amended. "I do. I owe you a lot."

Her gaze met his again. "But I can't do what you're asking of me."

She saw his features fall, the last vestiges of hope draining from his eyes. The man left looking back at her seemed tired. But through the sudden age creasing his face, she thought he looked almost… relieved. She hadn't been the burden, though. It had been the charade, the pretense of it all.

The secret he'd kept had taken a harder toll on him, than it had on her.

She stepped closer to him, hesitantly moving in close. Brown eyes leveled on her, haggard and uneasy. His cheek was rough under her palm, his lips dry against hers as she kissed him. For the first time, it was not joy that washed over her at the contact, but sadness. A deep, bittersweet gratitude came with the knowledge that it would be the last time they shared a moment like this.

"Samantha," his lips whispered against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. "Please…"

"Thank you, Jack… for everything."

She looked into his eyes for a lingering moment, memorizing him. Then with a nod, she moved towards the door. She didn't look at their picture on the key table. The door was open and the now-bright morning shining on her before she heard his voice call out after her.

"Colonel!"

Sam paused, almost turning back but settling for looking down at her shoes. She heard him move towards her, only a few steps, but enough for her to know that his eyes were on her once more.

"Did you…?"

He couldn't finish. His voice trailed off, pained and vulnerable, but she knew what he was asking. It was the same question she had asked him, not so long ago. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes over her shoulder.

"Yes, Jack…" Her breath felt tight in her chest, but somehow, her voice remained even. "I loved you."

When she turned and struck out into the morning alone, she tried not to think about the tears she saw in his eyes.


	41. Chapter 41

The walk to the square took longer than Sam thought it would, with a duffel on one shoulder and no one to keep her company. She hadn't expected Daniel and Cam to still be there, but when she saw no one but neighbors in the park she realized that was exactly what she had been hoping for.

"Samantha…" Sam turned and saw Laura, Lily's mom, approaching from the far side of the square. She was concerned, Sam could tell. Probably because she was out on her own. That had never happened before. "Is everything all right?"

Suddenly Sam was fully aware of her burning cheeks and teary red eyes. But she plastered on a fake smile, nodding away the woman's concern. "I'm fine, thanks."

"We were all worried yesterday… those reporters—"

"Do you know where they went?" Sam blurted out. Reporters. She was talking about Daniel and Cam.

Laura seemed taken aback by her sudden excitement. "Ummm… no," came the hesitant response. "I think they left though."

Sam's spirits fell. "They left town?"

"Yes… Isn't that a good thing?"

Sam blinked, then pasted the smile back on. "Of course. I was just—I wanted to apologize. I was having a bad day yesterday."

Laura nodded, but her eyes were wide enough for Sam to know she was being humored. "I guess that's understandable, given the way they were treating you. Did one of them hit you?"

"What? No!" Neither of them would ever hurt her.

The other woman immediately backed off. "I'm sorry. It's just that when you left you were bleeding… some of us wondered…"

"They didn't hurt me," Sam reiterated. "I get nosebleeds sometimes. It happens."

Laura suddenly wondered if that wasn't the first time she'd gotten these "nosebleeds". Jack O'Neill had never been anything but gentle to Samantha in public view, but what happened behind closed doors? Laura didn't want to jump to conclusions, but the woman in front of her seemed uncharacteristically jumpy. But then again, the papers had said she'd suffered a head injury—maybe it had caused some sort of personality disorder.

"Samantha… does Jack know you're here?"

Blue eyes zeroed in on her like a hawk's. But Laura held her ground—and her breath.

"No," came the succinct response. "Do you know what direction they went in?"

Laura blinked. Why would she care where the reporters went? "No. I'm sorry, I didn't see…"

"It's all right," Samantha returned swiftly. But then her eyes softened. "I have to go. Tell Lily I said hi, okay?"

Laura nodded numbly, then watched as the taller woman moved off across the square. She moved stiffly, almost as if she were in some sort of daze. Pulling out her cell phone, Laura kept one eye on the Commander as she typed in a number she'd had the good sense to memorize.

Jack answered his phone, breaking him out of his stupor. "Yeah?"

"Jack?" The voice was decidedly female, but not one he recognized right off the bat. "Hi, this is Laura."

"Lily's mom," he said, making the connection.

"Yeah, look… I'm at the town square, and Samantha's here." Of course she was. She'd go to the last place she saw Jackson and Mitchell, and go from there. But Laura's voice continued, breaking through his thoughts. "I don't mean to pry, but she looks a little out of it. I don't know if something happened, but she's been asking about those reporters from yesterday…"

Jack's heart fell even further. Even though he'd known, he still hoped, somewhere in his twisted little heart, that she might forget again. That they would be given one more chance to do things over. But he knew that wouldn't happen. Not this time.

But he couldn't let her go. Not like this. Especially if she wasn't being smart. She was confused, even if she really did remember. She should stay with him at least until she had a game plan. If she was at the square, it was clear she was lacking one.

"Thanks for letting me know, Laura," he uttered finally. "I'll be right there."

He had to make this right, somehow.

Sam exited the park. As she did so, she felt herself leaving the safe confines of the life she'd made in the town, striding towards the dark unknown of the urban jungle with nothing more than half-remembered memories to guide her.

She picked through all she had, trying to remember where to go next, what to do. They would have had a plan. A way to communicate. She knew that they had been forcibly separated. But that wouldn't have meant much. They were used to finding the holes in the system, doing what was necessary to get the job done. And she had communicated with them since their separation, she knew that much. But how?

Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw the neon signs of an internet café, beckoning to her like a sign from above. And then her lips curled into a grin, because she knew. She remembered. She tried to keep herself from sprinting across the street, her excitement overriding the pain of moving so quickly.

She was close… so close it made her heart hurt.

Jack cut the engine with a vicious twist of his wrist, then jumped out and jogged into the square. His eyes scanned the sparse crowd, but didn't see the blonde head he was searching for.

"Jack!"

He turned, facing Laura as she came abreast of him. "Laura… where is she?"

"I don't know. I turned my back for a second and she was gone. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You did more than I could ask for. Thanks." But even he couldn't keep his disappointment from his voice.

Laura eyed him. "What happened, Jack? She's never come out here alone before…"

He sighed, wiping a hand over his eyes. "We had an argument," he said finally, opting for a half-truth. "She left."

The woman's eyes instantly softened, the suspicion waning. What did she think happened? He decided he didn't really care to know. "Let me know if you see her?" he asked softly. Her brown head nodded. "Thanks, Laura. I mean it."

"She'll be okay, Jack," she returned, her voice brimming with sympathy. "She's smart."

Yeah. That was the problem, though, wasn't it?

Half a mile away, Sam exited the internet parlor, her features warm against the cold. She'd remembered—somehow, against all odds—the movie forum website. And she'd remembered how to log on. The password came easily: fi$hing. The logon ID had taken a few guesses, but she'd lucked out with Dorothy.

She'd posted a message and logged out, after a moment of staring at the words of her friends. They'd found her the same way, and the typed words, brief as they were, spoke of a common thought process that made her smile. They were on the same wavelength, but they wouldn't need any secret codes for this. Her message had been direct. She could only hope they thought to check the website for it.

Main Street Station, 6 pm, Friday.

Friday would give them several days to check the forum and get the message, and simultaneously put them in the middle of the Friday night party crowd. The odds of them being tracked and located there would be slim to none. And then they could slip away, all three of them. They could hop a train and get out of the city for good.

Walking down the street, she kept moving, heading further and further from the heart of the borough. She kept walking until she stumbled upon a bus terminal, to which a bus had serendipitously pulled up. She reached it just as the passengers had finished disembarking, and she was the only one to board. She climbed the steps with a sense of heavy finality, knowing that once the trip was made, there would be no going back.

Reaching the top she glanced around the interior, relieved to find it mostly empty. She looked to the bus driver. "Are you going into Chicago?" she asked.

The driver looked up sharply, as though surprised at the interaction. Sam took a deep breath as bored eyes widened with recognition, and a hoarse voice stuttered an answer. "Sure am…"

Sam nodded her thanks, then belated patted her pocket for change. She'd thought to grab the emergency cash from Jack's sock drawer—a little less than two hundred in medium to small bills. But she hadn't anticipated needing coins.

"No charge," the driver said, his voice now warm. She met his gaze in surprise and instinctive protest, and he winked at her knowingly. "I'll take you anywhere in the city you want to go."

The words might've bordered on lecherous, but the grandfatherly smile that accompanied them put Sam at ease. She smiled, then nodded humbly. "Thank you."

She moved deeper into the bus, finally choosing a seat five or six rows back as the bus surged into motion under her feet. She sat numbly for a moment, the threshold passed. Then she shifted into mission mode, pawing through her duffel until she could pull out her baseball cap. She pulled it low over her eyes, then slid down into the seat, stretching her legs to assume a relaxed pose that both helped her blend in and repel offers of conversation.

She couldn't afford to call attention to herself now. Not when she was so close.


	42. Chapter 42

"Naw, man, she was only here for like twenty minutes."

Jack bit back a groan, resisting the urge to smack the half-stoned kid upside the head. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the internet café full of witnesses. "Did you see which way she went?" he bit out with forced patience.

The kid scratched his head. "Uhhh… that way." He pointed left out of the front door. East. "She went walking thataway."

"And she was alone?"

"Yeah, man. The babe was totally hot, but she didn't talk to anybody. Barely even looked at 'em."

Well, there was some relief. Mitchell and Jackson hadn't found her yet. Of course, the kid's report was from a day ago, and if what he'd heard about these three were correct, anything could have changed in the meantime.

"All right," Jack said, his voice that of a Colonel. "Listen up, kid. You see her again, you call this number." He handed the stoner a card with his cell number on it.

"Sure thing, dude. I'll even leave it here for the next guy who comes on shift." Jack nodded, mildly surprised at the incentive. He tossed the kid a twenty for his time, and then left the café, turning down the same stretch of street Samantha had.

But as the street continued, bleak and devoid of both businesses and homes alike, he wondered what it was that had brought her down this way. She wouldn't have hitchhiked. So how far did she walk? On her leg, he might have thought not far. But it was almost two miles before he hit a bus station. It was the express—a one-shot trip back into the city.

This was it.

He waited fifteen minutes for the next bus to come, and when he did he flashed Samantha's picture at the bus driver. "You seen her?"

"Everyone's seen her," the woman drawled, clearly used to getting all kinds of passengers on her bus. "That face has been plastered all over the news for the past-"

"But did she get on this bus? Did you drive her anywhere?"

Weathered features creased into annoyance. "Oh come on, like an astronaut would take the freaking bus—"

"Actually she did." The new voice came from the middle of the bus—a teenaged girl who tucked a book in her bag as she stood to make her way closer. When she was closer she tucked a long strand of neon-green hair behind her ear, and looked closer at the picture Jack presented to her. She nodded, snapping her gum. "Yeah, that's her. She acted like she was trying to lay low, but the bus driver recognized her. Said he'd take her anywhere she wanted to go."

Jack tried not to let his eagerness show. "Do you know where he dropped her?"

A tattooed shoulder shrugged. "No, she was still on when I got off."

"What was the driver's name?" he asked.

"It was Gus," the girl told him confidently. "He's pretty nice. For a bus driver."

Their current driver snorted, and Jack turned his attention on her with a dry smirk. "Congratulations," he delivered smoothly. "You get to get Gus on the line. Find out where he dropped her."

He nodded his thanks to the girl, who shot him a smirk of her own before going back to her seat. He slid into the seat behind the driver, meeting her eyes in the mirror. He kicked out his legs, settling in for the long haul.

"I'll wait."

Sam left the motel reluctantly. She knew the risk of venturing out, but after a day and a half of living off vending machines and staring at the same four walls, she couldn't take it anymore. She threw on her coat and left the tepid confines of the tiny room in favor of venturing onto the tumultuous streets of Chicago.

The bitter cold was a welcome change, and almost instantly her cheeks turned numb. She ducked her chin, and barreled through it, striding down the street with long strides. Her bad leg pulled slightly at the hip, reminding her that spending so long sitting hadn't been beneficial in any way.

Well, that wasn't really true. Seclusion had afforded her the opportunity to search through the memories she had—and in the process recover even more. She now knew that Daniel would be the first to understand; he'd lost his own memories before. But not in an accident. Something told her it had somehow been borne from deliberate intent.

She remembered her team, her life; but it still didn't make complete sense. Her life didn't fit in this world, and she wasn't sure why. She was Sam Carter, but not Samantha Carter, the NASA poster girl. She'd never joined NASA. She'd found something better. Her team, her friends… they were a part of that.

She recalled more of Jack too, however much she tried not to. And it wasn't the Jack she'd come to know. He wasn't right, either. The only two who felt right were Daniel and Cam. And the prospect of seeing them again made her shiver. Part of her couldn't wait until the next day, when she would meet with them face to face—if they got her message. That same part of her wondered if they would somehow find her here, on the street. They'd see her, and call out—

"Colonel!"

Sam halted abruptly, startled at the breach of her daydream. Her head lifted, and turned towards the shout. But it wasn't her lost friends who called for her. It was Jack.

He stood on the far side of the street, watching her with a heavy gaze. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and with his shoulders hunched up around his ears in the cold, he looked absolutely miserable. Sam debated crossing the street, but decided against it, preferring to keep her distance. It was a narrow street anyway, and even on opposite curbs they were close enough to hear each other. And it wouldn't have mattered if they'd had to shout anyway—the street was empty, with no one to hear them except for a line of battered, parked cars between them.

She took a breath, noticing the tightness of her chest at his sudden arrival. "What are you—" She changed track quickly. Clearly, he was there for her. "How did you find me?"

Jack shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Gus," he told her simply. He watched her eyes darken in confusion. "Don't worry about it."

He looked around the shabby streets, with its graffitied buildings and broken pavement. "You know, if you were gonna take my cash, you could have at least used it to get a hotel in a nicer part of town."

Her cheeks reddened, and he had to fight a smirk at the sight of it. But she didn't say anything, which spoke volumes to the chasm between them. He took a step towards her, but she mirrored it, taking one back to keep her distance. He stopped.

"Please, Samanth—"

"I'm not Samantha."

"Colonel, then," he ground out bitterly. But then he softened. "Come home. We can figure something out. It's not safe here. I can't lie to the Air Force for long. It's only a matter of time before they put two and two together. They'll come after you. And your friends."

Her eyes looked up at him past hooded lids. "I want to believe you."

She knew how much danger she was in. She wasn't stupid—she knew what would happen if she was taken into custody. If she was lucky, she'd never see the light of day again, living out the rest of her life in solitary confinement.

If she was unlucky, they would eliminate her—and the risk she posed— entirely. And she was sure that if there was a worse option, the government would find it if she proved to be trouble enough.

"You can," he told her. "Please. We'll think of something. But this, whatever you have planned, it's not smart."

Sam stared at him. He seemed genuine. He clearly wanted to explain himself, for her to understand, but he wasn't making any overture to do so here. They were exposed, and she appreciated his knack for survivalist priorities. But still she couldn't be certain that he wouldn't betray her.

She couldn't risk him stopping her from seeing Daniel and Cam. And he would. He would do everything in his power to separate them, even if it was in the name of protecting her.

She couldn't let that happen.

Jack saw the answer in her hooded eyes before she even opened her mouth. Her blonde head shook back and forth, more grim than he'd ever before seen in her. "I'm sorry, Jack—"

Her voice caught suddenly in her throat, her gaze jerking sharply to the right. Jack instinctively looked over his left shoulder, responding to the soldier's reflex that was so deeply ingrained. His heart stuttered a beat when he caught sight of the man that had stepped into view, emerging from the alley behind him.

In the suburbs, he might not have stuck out like a sore thumb, but here in the ghetto the dark nylon windbreaker and khaki pants screamed danger as loudly as the sunglasses and comm. piece trailing from his right ear. He was ominous, and deliberately so.

Jack's whipped back around to face Samantha, a warning on his lips. Her gaze met Jack's for a brief moment; her eyes had flared, and in them he could see the horror, the panic—betrayal. But then he blinked, and next thing he knew she'd bolted, sprinting down the street as fast as she physically could.

But even as Ominous blew past Jack to chase her, another goon darted from another alley, this one in front of her. In moments he'd put himself in her path, his speed belying his size. He lunged her for, his arm swinging towards her in a move that was meant to be as intimidating as it was to actually catch her. She saw it coming a mile away.

With a speed that was almost preternatural, she ducked under Speedy's wild grab, then rose to deliver a swift upper cut. Her fist caught him at the base of the sternum, leaving him breathless and gasping. Then her foot lodged itself in the crooks of his ankles as she planted a hand on the back of his neck and sent him flying with a skillful shove. His face connected with the corner of the brick wall with a sickening crackle of tooth and bone.

The move was swift and beautifully dangerous—even Jack couldn't help but gape with awed surprise at the stunning show of violence. But she wasn't at full strength. Her bad leg left her unbalanced after sending Speedy flying, and the moment it took her to steady herself was all the opportunity Ominous needed.

He rushed her from behind, wrapping her in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her chest. Jack heard her shout in protest, before her head snapped back and collided with Speedy's nose with an audible crack of crushed cartilage. He staggered slightly, but it wasn't enough for him to release her. He twisted her roughly, presenting her to a third henchman who'd come to join them. This one was tall, taller even than Jack, and built like a tank. He took a step towards them both, his shaded gaze heavy with intent.

But Ominous didn't realize that opening her up for Tank's approach left him just as vulnerable as he was trying to make her.

Tank took a solid step forward, but her booted feet lifted and kicked him in the chest. The blow was barely enough to stop the goon in his tracks, but her captor lost his footing at the unexpected shift in weight. He staggered back, and Samantha helped him by pushing off against the pavement as soon as her feet left Tank's chest.

Ominous' head slammed against the same wall his buddy Speedy had eaten mere moments ago, caught between the Colonel's skull and the unforgiving brick. His hold loosened and she slipped away, only to be blindsided by Tank. This time, it was clear that her welfare had been made forfeit.

His knee slammed into the upper thigh of her bad leg; it gave way immediately, if even for a moment. It was followed by a hand on her wrist, twisting her arm up and behind her back in an attempt to subdue her. She turned away too late, and an amalgam of interacting forces slid the already fragile joint out of place.

She uttered a guttural shout of pain, her features paling to an ashen gray. But Tank was unrelenting. He tackled her against the side of a parked sedan, his beefy hand between her shoulder blades forcing her cheek to the hood. Her good leg kicked out, searching for a target, but her captor was smart, standing too close behind her to be struck.

The metallic click of handcuffs ratcheting shut around her wrists rang out in the deadened air, sharp and final as the other goons gathered themselves. Ominous lifted his hand to his mouth, muttering something into the microphone hidden in his cuff. The blood pouring from his disfigured nose spilled over his lips, coating his teeth and dripping from the tip of his chin. As his arm fell back to his side, his eyes narrowed on Samantha's struggling form.

Right on cue a black paneled van screeched around the corner, squealing to a stop ten feet from Tank and his still-squirming captive. Tank wrenched Samantha to her feet, but this time she was ready. Using her captor's own momentum, she launched herself up and back. He tumbled backwards, releasing her. She used the kinetic energy to roll back over her good shoulder and up to her feet.

But before Jack had a chance to admire the feat, Ominous leveled his firearm at her center of mass and pulled the trigger before she had fully risen. There was no gunshot, but she dropped like a stone, falling behind the car and out of Jack's line of sight. Ominous towered over her, his arm extending again and pulling the trigger a second time.

"Damn it, the bitch won't stay down."

It was the first any of them had said anything at all, and it was only then that Jack realized the sidearm was not a pistol, but a Taser.

"Take it easy," Tank said dispassionately, rising to his feet. Unlike Ominous and the still reeling Speedy, he was relatively unruffled. "She's already cuffed."

"The cunt broke my nose," Ominous returned, spitting a mouthful of blood towards their downed target, his intent to levy retribution clear as day.

But Tank remained wholly unimpressed. "Then maybe you won't smack it into the back of her head next time."

"Fuck you."

"Our orders were to take her in alive," he was reminded. "Ease off."

Reluctantly, bitterly, the man obeyed. He retrieved the barbed head of his Taser with a none-too-gentle yank. Then he stood, giving Samantha's fallen form a dirty look before turning away in disgust.

It was Tank who gathered her now-limp form over his shoulder and transferred her to the back of the van, where another two nameless men received her. In the brief intervening moment while Jack could see her, he couldn't tell if she were alive or dead. All he could see was the back of her head, hanging down over Tank's back. She no longer struggled.

Once the she was hefted into the van's interior, Tank turned and made his way towards where Jack stood slack-jawed.

"Colonel O'Neill," Tank addressed him, shoulders square. Jack looked at him, too stunned to speak. He hadn't even realized they'd noticed him standing there.

"General Landry has ordered you to cease and desist all contact with Colonel Carter," came the gruff report. "Your previous orders have been countermanded, and you are to report to headquarters at Scott Air Force Base at 1300 hours tomorrow." An envelope thick with the proper paperwork was proffered to him, and he numbly accepted them. "Good afternoon, Colonel."

With that, Tank stepped away, moving to climb into the back of the van with his fellow cronies. The doors slammed shut on them and their prize, then peeled down the deserted street, leaving nothing behind but the stench of burning rubber and some of Speedy's expended teeth.

Jack stared, frozen in shock. Once the van was out of sight around the corner, the street was once again just another derelict avenue in a forgotten corner of Chicago—not the scene of a violent arrest. An abduction that had taken less than two minutes in duration, with no witnesses save one.

A single witness who hadn't done a thing to help her.


	43. Chapter 43

Isolation did different things to different people. There was a reason it was used as punishment in detention facilities across the globe. It was simple, and very much effective. It could cause depression, paranoia, and hallucinations. But for Sam Carter, it gave her a rare opportunity to reflect in a way she never had before.

With a freshly re-set arm strapped to her chest, and her free hand cuffed to the chrome-plated bar affixed to the heavy steel table in front of her, she was forced to remain where she was. All she had in terms of view were two grey cinderblock walls to either side and a one way mirror facing her. But she wasn't seeing any of it. Her focus was directed inward.

Being Tasered had been a bitter blessing; despite the headache that still hammered in her skull, her unconscious mind had been able to finish what her waking mind could not. Her memories were back. And now they were clamoring to be seen, heard… felt. She used the peace and quiet to go through all of them, retracing her steps and reminding herself of the reality that had led to her incarceration.

In the mirror, her features remained stony, but within a maelstrom of emotion swirled dangerously. Not unlike the snowstorm that had welcomed her and her team to this world, somewhere up in the Arctic. But before that was a ship, and before that a desert planet. A fist tightened over her heart when she heard the words of her husband, watched him bleed out while gasping for her to flee.

Not for the first time, she wished she had stayed there with him, even knowing what would have happened. Maybe even especially, considering what her survival had led to.

Sam's focus snapped outward when the snick of the door opening sounded softly off to her right. Apparently, they'd felt she'd stewed long enough. She had no idea how long that might have been; she had no perception of time in this room, nor did she care enough to wonder. It might have been days, or only hours. But she kept her eyes down and her expression remained impassive.

The suited man who settled in front of her appeared to be brimming with gentility, with the hard edge of tangible threat lurking beneath the surface. This was supposed to look like an interview, at least at first, but she had no misconceptions. She'd been around the block enough times to know that this interview was nothing more than the first of what would surely be many interrogations.

But she could care less about the air of menace shrouding the lightly smiling agent. She had faced down gods, even killing a few, and this faceless, nameless agent was still nothing more than a man. She remained unimpressed.

"I'm sorry we had to meet this way," the man delivered, adjusting his tie and tugging on his cuffs. "I've read your file, Colonel Carter, and I must say I'm in awe of the work you've done."

He wouldn't know her work if it jumped up and bit him in the butt. But she didn't say that. She didn't even look at him.

The man cleared his throat, as though to draw her attention. He failed. "I assume you've realized that the conditions of your release have been breached, and you've been remanded into the custody of the federal government." When she didn't respond, he continued. "We don't intend to make your life miserable, Colonel. The circumstances of your existence are simply too volatile for you to be allowed access to the public. And from what I've read, the need to keep from altering the timeline is something you can appreciate."

A gentle jab, and an illogical one at that, in an attempt to rattle her cage. After all, why would she care about altering this timeline when it was the wrong timeline anyway? If he'd read her file and that of her team, then he knew that it was their express intention to directly influence this timeline, in an effort to return to the lives they'd left. Sam ignored him.

"I was hoping to get some information from you, Colonel. I'm aware you've suffered a lapse in memory, one that has resolved itself to some degree. Do you think you could tell me a little about what you do remember?"

Silence was the only thing to answer him.

"I'm sure you must have a lot of questions. I'd be happy to answer them, if you answered some of mine." He only waited a beat before continuing, glancing down at the file he'd brought with him. "How did you get your Stargate to work, Colonel?"

Finally, her eyes lifted, meeting his in an icy stare. She held his gaze unwaveringly, until he shifted minutely in his seat—as close to a squirm as he would get. She didn't say a word, but she knew exactly what information he had let slip in the seemingly innocuous question.

They found it. Or at least, one of them. They'd recovered a Stargate, and were trying to figure out how it functioned. Only now did she recognize her own wisdom by imparting only the barest of details during their initial debriefing in Alaska. A bitter, wry voice within—that sounded suspiciously like Jack—urged her to let them rot.

She wasn't going to be allowed to touch the Stargate. She would be given absolutely no chance to work on it directly. Any knowledge she shared would be in theory only, and analyzed by their own team of scientists pretending to know what the hell she was talking about.

If they were smart enough they might even dig up their own Daniel Jackson and have him look at the symbols—but even if their Daniel figured it out they would be stuck dialing manually, turning the heavy inner ring by hand. The thought almost made her smile. Almost.

"You must be hungry, Colonel," the man said. She was. They hadn't given her food or water since her arrest—a deliberate oversight, she was sure. "How about as soon as we get done here, I order you a nice steak, hm?"

Bribery. Oldest trick in the book, and one she didn't fall for. She held the upper hand here—they didn't want to kill her. She was still too valuable to be allowed to die. They'd send her food before she ever came close to asking for it.

Letting her gaze leave his expressed her noninterest well enough. As the man continued to bumble through his introductory interview, her stare bored into the glass over his shoulder. She knew who was there watching, lingering behind the glass. She remembered exactly who had started this cluster.

Hank Landry, formerly-retired General extraordinaire. He had been the one to spark the Mission Commander business, and he would be the one in charge of this mess. But it didn't matter. If he was expecting her to shatter into a million pieces, then he, like everyone else, would be sorely disappointed.


	44. Chapter 44

Jack poured himself another finger of scotch but only stared at it before pitching it at the wall in a fit of aggression. The glass shattered, and the liquor sprayed over both walls and carpet, but he didn't care. Over the past three days, he'd wasted three tumblers and half a fifth of good liquor the same way, unable to sit down long enough to get hammered like he wanted to.

He was too agitated, too out of control. He _felt_ out of control, and the shame of trying to drown his shame only added to the guilt. His thoughts remained trapped in a loop, replaying the memories of the past few days, starting with Samantha's recollection and ending with what happened when he'd reported to Scott Air Force Base.

_He'd wanted to slam open the door to the General's office as soon as he'd arrived. But years of discipline had given him the foresight to know that doing so would not earn him any favors or goodwill. And he would need both to avoid facing punishment after his failed mission, let alone learn anything about what would happen to Colonel Carter._

_After being left to wait for fifteen unnecessary minutes, a uniformed secretary had shown him into the General's presence, who didn't look up even when the door shut, leaving them alone in the office. The space was borrowed, indicated by the wrong name displayed on the desk placard, and Jack vaguely recalled that Landry used to be retired._

" _Colonel O'Neill—" The General didn't bother to look up before addressing him. Good thing Jack hadn't bothered to salute him, or else he'd have been left hanging._

_As it was, his impatience got the better of him. "Where is she?"_

_The curt demand finally pulled the General's attention up to him. He could see the annoyed reprimand in the man's eyes, but Landry seemed to think better of voicing it. "Colonel Carter is secure—"_

" _Where?"_

_Landry's eyes narrowed in displeasure. But again, he overlooked the disrespect. "In a location that will remain undisclosed. You are no longer to concern yourself with the Colonel, or anything regarding her situation. Colonel Carter doesn't exist—"_

" _The Mission Commander does," Jack countered bitterly. "Or have you forgotten that little stage in your plan?"_

" _The Mission Commander has gone into seclusion, due to some unappreciated intrusions from the press in recent months. She will remain there until she fades from public awareness. The world will forget about her, and then Mission Commander will be dead once more."_

_Jack shook his head, trembling with righteous rage. "You can't—"_

" _It's already done, Colonel O'Neill," the General countered swiftly, his patience disappearing in the blink of an eye. "And if you had done your job, the one reason you were assigned to her case, and kept her from meeting up with Jackson and Mitchell, then such measures wouldn't be necessary!"_

_Jack reeled himself in, swallowing his next argument. In a way, it was true, and it didn't surprise him that the General was already well-aware of the two men's arrival in Chicago. He took several deep breaths in an attempt to temper the growing fire of rage in his belly._

" _What are you going to do about them?"_

_The General met his gaze, and his tone instantly came down to meet Jack's. "About Jackson and Mitchell? Nothing."_

" _Nothing?"_

" _Nothing. The only risk they posed was what Samantha Carter might learn from them, and consequently whatever hare-brained scheme she devised to revert the timeline. Carter is the greatest threat among the three of them—with her secure and under observation, the other two are of no concern to Washington."_

_A part of Jack figured he should feel relieved that the Colonel's friends would not be hunted down like dogs, or attacked on the streets as she had been. But he failed to feel anything but bitter resentment and concern for the woman he'd forsaken._

" _I wanna see her."_

" _Absolutely not. And I advise you to forget about her as soon as possible."_

" _It's not right—"_

" _That's not your place to determine," Landry cut in. "And before you get in over your head, I suggest you take a look at this."_

_A manila folder—stamped with bold, bloody letters that it was above top-secret—was plopped on the desk in front of Jack. Even before he moved to open it, Jack knew he didn't want to see what was inside._

But he did see what was inside, and that was why he was here, pacing his apartment and trying to find the peace of mind to get completely and utterly wasted. His brief efforts to pull some old strings and talk to his old intelligence contacts had been met with silence. Only one even had the decency to advise him and let the matter drop before the whole thing destroyed him and his family.

And the worst thing about it was the fact that the disappearance of Mission Commander Carter was as easy to warp as the General had made it out to be. The press had kept their distance, by Samantha's own request, so all they needed was a government-issued press release and that was it. No one knew any differently because no press had been nosy enough to let the world know differently.

When the sound of knocking echoed from the front door, he was too agitated to be surprised or suspicious. He stomped to the front door, and swung it open to reveal the two people in the world he absolutely did not want to see.

"Where is she?" Jackson demanded, not wasting a moment on pleasantries.

"Where's who?" Jack countered.

But the younger man would have none of it. "We know she's here—" He pushed past Jack, with Mitchell following close behind, leveling a hooded, but pointed glare his way. "Sam!"

"She's not here."

"Sam, it's Daniel!" Jackson called out, his voice ringing out clear through the empty house. "Please, just talk to us!"

"C'mon Carter, we need to talk!" Mitchell chimed in, only slightly more compassionate and less demanding. "So stop hidin' and get on out here!"

"She's not here!" Jack said, this time shouting loud enough to cut through their din.

Jackson—Daniel, whatever the hell his name was—rounded on him, his eyes blazing. "What do you mean, she's not here?"

"I mean she's not here. Not present. Elsewhere." Jack rolled his eyes and poured himself another finger of liquor in a fresh tumbler. He didn't bother to pick it up. It'd only end up same as the others. "Gone."

"Gone _where_ , exactly?" Mitchell asked, his features hardening.

Jack shrugged. "I dunno."

"What do you _mean—"_

"I mean I don't know!" he shouted, his patience evaporating. "They won't tell me anything…"

Jackson eyed him, before realization dawned. "Oh, God… Tell me they didn't—"

"They took her. I don't know where." But he had an idea of what kind of fate she faced. Incarceration and isolation for the rest of her life… and the General's words from so many months ago about curious scientists and extra protein markers still echoed in his ears. "Why are you even here?"

The two men shared a look. "Sam left us a message, arranging a meet at the train station. She didn't show, and we figured you'd found out about it and kept her from going…"

"When were you supposed to meet?"

"Friday."

Jack's eyes closed with guilt. One day. One day would have made all the difference. He knew now—beyond all shadow of doubt—that the goons hadn't been tracking her that day. They'd been tracking him. They'd known he'd look for her, and they figured he'd find her. No doubt they even used him as a distraction to let them get close enough for the takedown.

And he'd led them straight to her.

He hadn't even realized until long after the fact. Some black ops guy he was. Too many years of training gigs had made him soft. She'd driven him to distraction, and she'd been the one to pay the price. And that was on him. Because now he knew that if he had waited one single day, she wouldn't be god-knew-where, facing god-knew-what.

"We have to find her… you gotta help us," Jackson told him, surging towards him, his desperation now tangible.

But Jack shook his head. "I can't…"

"The hell you can't!" he countered. "This happened because of you! Because of what _you_ did!"

"You think I don't know that?" Jack rounded on the younger man with just as much vehemence as Jackson had moments ago. "It's not that simple!"

"Make it that simple! I have seen so many Jack O'Neills it would make your freaking head spin! And not one of them would ever stand for this!"

Jack took a step forward. "And apparently none of those Jack O'Neills ever had a son to worry about, either!"

Jackson's mouth opened to retaliate, but then seemed to sense the heaviness in his voice, because he suddenly paused. His eyes narrowed, sniffing out the hint of something more. "What do you mean?"

_Jack's hand reached out of its own accord, lifting the flap of the folder open with a heavy sense of foreboding. He stared at the picture inside, resting on a bed of official documents, and knew that they had him right where they wanted him._

_The subject of the long-angled lens camera shot was a college kid in a pale orange sweatshirt. It was familiar, as were the features set in the face above it, shouting in anger towards some point off camera. It was Charlie, shoulder to shoulder with equally furious expressions, all shouting and screaming silently._

" _What is this?"_

" _Your son, at an anti-war rally two months ago. The event saw two law enforcement officials dead and dozens injured in the riot that followed. I'm sure you heard about it…"_

_He had. That didn't mean shit. "He wasn't a part of that."_

" _Of course the proud father would say that… and no doubt you would be able to provide an alibi for him. But when this photograph crossed the desks of my superiors, they passed it along to me. They've been urging me to act on it. However, I see no reason to… yet."_

"If I do anything to help you, or help her, my son goes to federal prison," he delivered bitterly. "I can't let that happen."

He half expected the man to blow past the facts in his mission to get his friend back. But to his surprise, Daniel almost instantly pulled back, withdrawing from the battle brewing between them. The eyes behind the spectacles softened, and Jack hated the pity he saw in them.

"They've got you too," he stated, his voice now tinged with compassion. "You'd do anything for her, but you'd do more for him."

Jack didn't respond. But it was true, and they both knew it. He couldn't sacrifice his son. He couldn't.

Daniel nodded for him, affirming his own suspicions. "You can still help us."

"I can't—"

"Just tell us where she is. Anything to help us find her. Everything you might know."

But Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Honestly, I—" His voice caught. "I don't know. No one who might know anything will talk to me. But these guys aren't stupid. If she's even still in Illinois, she won't be for long."

Mitchell shifted impatiently. "We've got to get to her before then. If they get her to a secondary location they're gonna bury her."

"That's their plan," Jack told him sullenly.

"We won't ever find her—"

"Also their plan. She's the one they're worried about. They figure if she's out of the picture, there's not much you can do to mess with the timeline."

Mitchell and Jackson shared a glance. "Well, I wish we could say they're not right…" Jackson delivered wryly.

Mitchell shrugged. "Even if we somehow got to a 'Gate, we wouldn't be able to get it working without her."

For a long moment, they all stared at each other. Neither of Jack's visitors knew what to do, their mission thwarted by a sudden lack of information. They needed intel, and not a single one of them in that house was able to get it. That left Samantha—Sam—alone wherever she was, a victim of a world in which she didn't belong.

It turned Jack's stomach, but he focused on the reason he'd gotten into this mess in the first place. "You both need to leave," he said, his tone both soft and unyielding.

And instead of protesting, Daniel nodded. "Okay…" Again, with the pity. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry. That it came to this."

Jack didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself, or his voice, to hold out. And the guilt got that much heavier, burdened by the sympathy of a man who didn't know that Jack had been there when the Colonel had been taken.

The pair moved towards his front door. On their way, he noticed Daniel glancing at the many pictures hanging on the walls, sitting on the tables. Pictures of her, of them—all smiles, all happy.

"She loves you, you know… The real you."

"I'm pretty damn real," Jack ground out bitterly. "And so was she."

Daniel didn't seem surprised by the correction. "You two always are." Cam moved to leave, giving Daniel a moment alone with Jack. "You're lucky," the younger man told him. "To know her like that. Not everyone does."

Yeah, Jack could see how luck could have played into it. But at the same time he also saw the situation they faced now, and wondered if luck was really the word for it. If they hadn't been so lucky, his son wouldn't be threatened, his life wouldn't be in shambles, and she wouldn't be under lock and key right now.

But still, a part of him knew he would never trade those months with her for anything. Those months had felt right, despite the wrongs that had brought it about.

"Don't come back here," he said finally. The last thing he needed was for them to be apprehended on his watch again. There would be eyes on him, and if they suspected he was conspiring…

Jackson nodded, understanding softening the angry line of his jaw. "Wouldn't dream of it. We'll find her on our own."

With that Jack was left alone, alone in an empty apartment that felt horribly _his_ after being so long in a home that was _theirs_ , with nothing more than a bottle of scotch to keep him company. His eyes closed against the burn of guilt, his head low with shame.

"Good luck," he whispered to absent ears. "And godspeed."


	45. Chapter 45

Sam stared at the plate of food in front of her, as she had since it had been delivered. It remained untouched, save for the feasting a lone fruit fly that had somehow buzzed its way into the interrogation room.

She was surprised they even bothered to lengthen the range of her trapped wrist—part of her had expected them to let her fend for herself, with an immobile right arm and cuffed left hand. No doubt it would have given them sort of satisfaction to see her try to finagle a way to eat so indisposed.

But even with the considerations they'd taken, she'd refused to partake of the offering. Apart from her distinct lack of appetite, she enjoyed the way she left them unsettled. So far she'd had three interviewers, each as congenial as the last. And as they rotated through, barely giving her a moment's rest between, they left more irritated than they'd come. The part of her that had blossomed under Jack O'Neill's command reveled in it.

She didn't use his old tricks of taunting them, that wry sense of humor that had given him more bruises than he ever cared to count. Whereas he was cocky, she was intensely focused, and she remained mute. Whatever O'Neill comments she made remained secreted away in her thoughts.

"Do you know the whereabouts of Daniel Jackson and Colonel Cameron Mitchell?"

The question came from the man she'd identified as Homer. Despite the fact that he was black, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt and had only a few wisps of hair on the top of his shiny head. And he'd been the one to bring her a donut from the break room in an attempt to butter her up. It was fitting.

His only answer was the rattle of metal on metal as Sam shifted in her seat, making the handcuffs clink together. She didn't look up, and she didn't lift her head from where she studied the smooth black surface of the table in front of her. But she felt smug—she'd been wondering if they had been caught too, and to know they were still free came as a relief.

After a long while, Homer finally sighed. He closed the file in front of him and clasped his hands on top of it. She felt his gaze intensify, and in return cast her senses out, not looking up but focusing on the room around her, listening more closely to the sound of his breathing. He seemed pensive... calm, but apprehensive. Apprehensive on her behalf, perhaps, because he had no reason to fear for himself. She was no longer a physical threat.

"Colonel, it's been four days of this, and you haven't said a word." Stating the obvious. Safe thing to do, when they hadn't learned a thing from her. "I appreciate your discipline, but you know that your value to this government is contingent on the information you can supply them."

Value? That was a very PC way to say that the quality of her treatment was directly proportionate to how cooperative she was. She wasn't stupid. She could suffer in some military prison, or she could live in relative comfort. Both options left her a prisoner. She'd never be free again. And she'd be damned if she helped the people who'd tried to play god on her life.

* * *

Lemar Houston was not a stranger to the ways of the government. Those in power wielded it the way they saw fit, and the mortals in their grasp either bent or broke. But the woman in front of him baffled him.

He'd read her file, heard the reports of her apprehension. And to tell the truth, it was a little difficult to reconcile the passive woman across the table with the one who had put two highly trained government agents in the hospital. But there was an intelligence in those shadowed eyes, one that was cold and calculating. And the coiled tension in her frame spoke to a combat readiness that Lemar hadn't seen since his time in the Green Berets.

As much as he sympathized for this woman—because what she'd been forced to suffer through already was enough to make anyone feel for her—he could not deny that she could be a very big threat, if given half the chance.

"Colonel Carter, I'm not here to make your life hell," he told her. "If you want to have any hope of enjoying any semblance of freedom, you need to help us help you. That road starts here."

Finally, her gaze lifted, meeting his for the first time in four days. He froze, surprised and shocked at the distinct blue of those eyes, pegging him with a stare so intense it took his breath away. And the message in them was as clear as if she had shouted it at the top of her lungs. _Bite me_.

Before he could react, the door opened, admitting his fellow interrogator. Lemar looked up, but could feel the Colonel's gaze remain on him, unfazed by the sudden and unexpected intrusion. "What?" he said.

"Transport's here," he was told.

Lemar sighed. Her window of opportunity had just closed. Glancing back at the Colonel, he could see she wasn't surprised in the slightest.

He nodded, and got to his feet. He kept out of the way as his colleague prepared their guest to be moved. A wide leather belt went around her waist, and the D-ring in front anchored her cuffed wrist as soon as it was unlocked from the table. Her ankles were shackled as well, hobbled so that she could not try to make a run for it. But she didn't make any move to escape.

The Colonel allowed herself to be restrained without a fight—without so much as a sound. Only the set of her jaw conveyed her displeasure at the treatment, but she didn't protest. And she no longer looked at him.

When she was properly trussed and ready to go, they escorted her from the room and then through the colorless, nondescript halls that mazed their way through the basement of the building. They took her out the back way and just as they turned down the final hallway they all pulled to a stop. Blue eyes took in the glow of daylight coming in through the glass door at the end of the hall, and stared for a long moment.

But then, without warning, a black hood descended over her head, blinding her and hiding her features from view. An indiscernible gasp of sound escaped her lips—something too guttural to be a whimper and too soft to be a grunt. But it was more of surprise than anything else, and the only other reaction she had to the newest development was a clenched fist that pulled subtly against its bonds.

"Sorry, Colonel," he said in a low voice, just loud enough for her to hear, even through the hood. "But it's procedure." Belatedly, he realized the courteous thing to do would have been to warn her—explain what the procedure was.

They were used to dealing with terrorists, arms dealers… the scum of the earth who would as soon kill you as look at you. They didn't bother to explain jack to those prisoners, having learned long ago that leaving them unbalanced and wary helped keep them tame. This woman was not their usual customer, and they'd failed to accommodate.

Lemar put a hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her down the hall. Her steps were now slightly hesitant, stuttering uncertainly against the tile as she was led blindly along. The glass door opened, and they ushered her out into the afternoon sun. The orange jumpsuit she wore flared in the light for a brief moment, before she was hoisted into the waiting transport.

The last Lemar saw of Colonel Carter was her shrouded figure in the back of that armored vehicle. She had still given no resistance, hadn't exhibited any sign of violence. The only thing that kept her from total apathy for the situation was the poignant understanding in her frame.

She knew as well as he did that as soon as that hood had covered her features, Samantha Carter had ceased to exist.


	46. Chapter 46

The first day back at work after a vacation was the longest day of the year. Especially if work was caring for the international criminals and anti-American terrorists who had the misfortune of being caught. It was a thankless job on the best of days, providing medical care for these people, but it paid well enough and kept a precious few off the war front.

Its only saving grace was that it meant ensuring that at least one person in the system was concerned with the welfare of the criminals, and it was made the job worthwhile. At least for her.

So as she made her rounds through cell block Alpha, glancing through the heavy duty bulletproof plexiglass windows of each cell, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar resident. Most of these cells were empty, and those with inmates showed them either lounging or twitching. The one unfamiliar inmate was neither.

The woman was motionless, perched on the edge of her bed with her legs pulled up in front of her. Arms that were really too skinny to be good for her were wrapped around her knees, and she sat as still as a statue. She was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable to the naked eye, but as a doctor, she knew that looks could be deceiving. It was a fact soon proven right when the seemingly-meditative resident turned towards the window.

It was only a window to those looking in—those inside the room saw only a mirror. But even so the inmate seemed to sense the presence of an observer, and turned sky blue eyes towards her. Her own eyes widened with recognition, and gasp escaped her throat as her heart skipped a beat. It wasn't possible.

Samantha Carter was dead.

But those pale eyes and blonde hair were unmistakable. She stared until the resident turned away in disgust, denying the shadow behind the glass the satisfaction of studying her. And then the inmate, this doppelganger, presented nothing but her back to the spectator, facing the corner of her cinderblock cell.

The doctor didn't move on until her pulse evened out, and she felt she could walk without her legs shaking. But even then her thoughts continued to whirl in confusion and horror. Samantha Carter was supposed to be dead. So why was she here? _How_ was she here?

Dammit. It was her first day back.

* * *

A few days after turning away from the faceless observer outside the glass, Sam lay on her side, reveling in the cool sensation of rough government-issue pillowcase beneath her cheek. It reminded her of all-nighters at the SGC, sleeping on top of the covers as she was now, knowing she would be too busy in the morning to make the bed proper. It was an old trick she learned back in basic, and it had served her well throughout a career of surprise inspections.

Now, though, it was a comfort she refused to take for granted. She'd expected her stay here would not be comfortable, and her suspicion had been confirmed on the first day. After a few days of treatment similar to what she'd experienced with Homer and his buddies, they'd tossed her in here, a ten by ten cell of grey cinderblock with nothing but a camera in the corner and a one-way mirror to keep her company. She'd been left to herself then, the exact duration kept unknown to her. When she'd finally been summoned again, they had dumped her in another room, one whose padded walls and floor sent shivers up her spine.

And for good reason. That first visit to the room, the light from above had been blindingly bright. For god knew how long she'd kept her eyes clenched shut against the glare. If that weren't enough, when she'd finally been able to peek through slitted lids, the lights had started flash. First, it was simple, rhythmic flares, pulsing gently. Then, it had steadily progressed into a chaotic strobeing, turning her growing nausea into a dizzying realm of lingering shadows and yawning glares. She'd been reducing to a quivering, huddled mass curled on the floor, her arms over her head, and still it wasn't enough to block it out completely.

When the room was finally pitched into darkness, she'd thought she'd passed out. But then she'd heard the sound of her own breathing, hitching and uneven. It was the only sound—nothing trailed in from the outside, and there was no sound from the bulbs overhead. What rational part of her still remained functional at that point had wondered if the room was soundproofed; in the end, she hadn't cared enough to investigate.

She didn't know how long she'd been kept in the dark, but when they finally pulled her out she'd been barely able to stand, and in the beginning stages of hallucination. She'd heard something scrabbling in the corners, footsteps approaching from a direction that was not the door. And when they sat her down behind the interrogation table, once again cuffed and restrained, she was aware that her breathing was still erratic and her skin tacky with cold sweat.

They'd asked the same questions they'd been asking—though she wasn't really aware of it at the time, they were disappointed when they got no more of an answer than the last time they asked. After what seemed like hours they returned her to her cell. They didn't collect her again for what felt like several days, and she was left to sleep and rest until she felt like herself again. And then they pulled her out to do it all over again.

It was a routine that became familiar. The only deviation from that first time was the opportunity they gave her to spill her guts _before_ they put her in the room. They figured once she knew what was in store for her, she might be inclined to escape it before it started. It didn't work. It was merely an hour of silent anticipation.

It continued in the same fashion time after time. They toyed with the conditions, experimenting with light and dark, loud and silent. Even the temperature, in recent sessions. This past turn had been hot—throat-parching, tongue-thickening hot. Even now her sweaty skin still felt flushed, overheated… which was why the brief chill of the pillowcase came as such a relief. It wouldn't last long, she knew, but she would enjoy it while it did.

The unexpected sound of the door opening startled her from her near sleep. It wasn't yet time for her to be dragged down the hall to the room—she'd just left it, really. She barely lifted her head, looking over her shoulder at the figure entering the room.

It was Carrot Top, so termed because of orderly's ginger head of hair and penchant for unfunny comedy. It was often all she heard, besides the questions of her interrogators and ear-splitting mechanical shrieking that tormented her within the padded walls of the room. But more than that he was handsy, copping an unnecessary feel when he shackled her for transport. And unlike his partner, he was never gentle, not even after a session in the room.

He was the type to jerk her this way and that, make her stumble, simply because he could. Because he enjoyed the power of controlling someone restrained and incapacitated. So far, his brutality had been nothing more than a subtle display of power, and the occasional grope. But today, when he closed the door behind him after he entered, she wondered if he had something a little more on his mind.

She didn't have the energy to find out. Her head fell heavily to the pillow once more, ignoring his surprise arrival with a tired blink.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart," he sing-songed with false cheer. "It's time to _get up_." The last two words hardened into an order, but Sam didn't move. She was generally cooperative, but no matter how Carrot Top tried to play it off as a routine session, she was able to recognize that it wasn't.

On routine sessions, the door remained open and Carrot Top's partner hovered outside while she was shackled. Carrot Top had nothing more than what he carried on his belt, which meant that the usual irons weren't going to be used. And again, it was too soon for another session. Her perception of time might be nil, but the ache in her body was infallible.

"I said, _get up_ ," he growled. Before her exhausted mind could fully process his movements, his hand had gripped her by the arm and pulled her up, then slammed her into the wall. Her head smacked against the cinderblock with blinding force, sending stars dancing into her vision. But it woke up her soldier's instincts, and the pain receded as she focused on a very real threat.

Her eyes focused on him, and Carrot Top's features twisted into a sneer. "That woke you up," he observed. "Should have known you'd like the rough stuff."

His breath was hot on her cheek, his nose almost brushing her skin. His hand moved to her hip, and made his intention clear by plucking at the elastic waistband of her prisoner's grey uniform. Almost without thinking her hands moved to intercept him, shoving his hands away before coming up to strike at his face. He was quick though, and knocked her hands aside to deliver stunning slap to her cheek.

The blow was enough to make her reel slightly, and she was only kept steady by his body pressing hers to the wall. When she met his gaze again, he had withdrawn a pair of standard issue handcuffs, which dangled in front of her nose.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way." His eyes raked up and down her form, glinting in the fluorescent light. "But you're into the violent stuff, so maybe it'll just be the hard way. Sam flicked her gaze up to the upper right corner of the mirror, where the ever-recording camera was anchored. Her stomach sank when she saw the red light was dark—it was turned off. "That's right," Carrot Top chuckled smugly. "It's just you and me now…" He lifted the cuffs a little higher, pulling her gaze to them once more. "So what's it gonna be?"

Sam met his gaze. She kept her features blank, but her hands fell to his hips. He took it for the acceptance she intended it to be, and his predatory grin deepened. When metal clicked closed over her wrist anyway, her jaw tightened. "Just for fun," he said. She ignored it, instead zeroing in on the rapidly closing window of opportunity.

When she pulled on his hips he moved willingly, which made it a simple thing to give him a vicious tug at the same moment her knee shot up. The joint connected with his groin, in a savage yet calculated decision that Sam made with full realization of what would follow. She consciously accepted the consequences—she'd rather be beaten to death in a rage than be raped.

Carrot Top squeaked, his features slackening into an ashen pallor. He collapsed, hands to his abused appendage, and Sam instantly crouched over him. Her hands searched his pockets, looking for the key card that would open the door. Escape from wherever she was would probably be damn near impossible, if she really was someplace like Gitmo. But even if it meant she was sitting outside the cell door with Carrot Top locked inside until somebody came by and noticed, she'd prefer that to simply waiting for her tormentor's retribution.

But she didn't move fast enough. Either that, or his rage was simply so great that it eclipsed his pain. Whichever it was, he struck with the force of a sledge hammer, his fist slamming into the side of her head to send her sprawling. She staggered to her feet, but not quickly enough. His leg kicked out and hooked around hers, knocking her off balance. She fell into an ungraceful heap, her head hitting the metal frame of her bed on the way down.

Dazed, she was still trying to push herself up when Carrot Top bore down on her, slamming his baton against the back of her shoulders. She collapsed heavily, as another blow fell, catching her across the back of the ribs. Then he had flipped her onto her back, knocking the wind out of her. "Stupid bitch!" he spat, spittle flying from his lips.

Carrot Top was now beet red with rage and pain, with one hand instinctively reaching down to cradle himself. The other remained on the nightstick, pressed against her throat.

"You tried to escape," he told her, a dawning plan clear in his tone. His lips curled into a bitter smirk of triumph. "Now you're really fucked."

The baton raised again, and in the split second before it came down and her world went dark, Sam wondered if maybe this could kill her.

* * *

She was the doctor to first respond to the blaring red light and screaming klaxons, but even then she was beaten to the scene by half a dozen orderlies. The cell in question had already been unlocked and the door opened, leaving her clear access to the chaos within. It was a roiling mass of bodies, with some orderlies subduing a prisoner on the floor, others trying to pull them off, and those in between who ended up just attacking each other.

They didn't notice her entrance until she put her fingers to her lips and let loose with an ear-splitting whistle. The chaos froze, in almost comedic fashion, all heads turning to her save one; the cell's resident remained curled on the floor one arm flung over her head in a defensive posture. It was then she realized why this cell was so familiar.

"What in the _hell_ is going on here?" she demanded, moving to kneel by the victim's side. She'd seen the blood, and she didn't give a rat about whatever injuries the orderlies had. They were the aggressors here, a fact that was made increasingly more apparent the more she took in the scene.

"The prisoner was trying to escape!" one declared. "She attacked me!"

She eyed the man carefully, even as her fingers monitored a speeding pulse. She was familiar with this guy, in the sense that he made her female nurses feel uncomfortable and he already had a slew of harassment charges on his record. It was a reason he'd been shunted to this line of work—he was good with the hard-to-control inmates, but not the average workplace.

"Did she try to escape before or after you tried to cuff her, Samuels?" she demanded wryly. She had a good idea what had happened. She looked to another orderly she had noticed trying to help the resident before she'd arrived. "Get him some ice, and then keep him in the break room. He's not going anywhere until I find out what really happened here."

The man nodded, then forcibly dragged Samuels from the room. He knew something was up just as much as he did. Standard cuffs were not procedure for this cell block. It was leg shackles and connecting wrist restraints whenever the residents left the cells. No exceptions. And she knew for a fact that no one in this block had orders to be moved today.

She turned her attention back to her patient, who was starting to come round. Blue eyes fluttered open, focusing sluggishly on the doctor. "Can you hear me?" she asked gently.

Samantha Carter's features almost smiled, her expression soft enough to be almost peaceful. Almost as if she recognized the doctor, and took comfort from her presence. Her eyes closed, taking a breath of relief. But then she seemed to start, as though coming back to herself. Blue eyes flashed open, widening as she stared at the doctor, then towards the lingering orderlies. Her breath quickened, then began to cough as damaged ribs made themselves known.

An arm came up, once more covering her head, and the woman curled in on herself as her body trembled. Maybe in fear, maybe in shock, the doctor wasn't sure. But she started issuing orders anyway.

"Get out," she told the orderlies forcefully. "Clear the hall. No one gets within fifty feet of this cell."

"But Doctor—" The requisite protests were silenced by a fierce glare.

"Now," she demanded. She didn't even have to raise her voice. The room cleared, and when she was sure they'd gone far enough she focused on her patient once more, who was still trembling, hiding her face from view.

She placed hand on Samantha Carter's shoulder, only to have it shrugged away. "I need to take a look at you…"

A mumble answered her, sounding suspiciously like a "Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. You're bleeding—"

"Go away."

"No."

Samantha Carter drew herself up, her features turned away and hidden behind long hair that fell down over her face. But her efforts didn't really matter; she'd already been seen, recognized. There was no going back. She watched as the Mission Commander leaned against the bedframe, breathing heavily as she hunched over, bracing her ribs. "I don't know you. And you don't know me."

The doctor slid closer, reaching to take her by the hand. Her ward twitched away from her, but the doctor did not yield her position. Baby steps. "I do know you."

"No…" This time it was a whisper.

The doctor took a deep breath. "Yes, Sam… I do."

She reached up, and cupped her chin in her palm, turning the stubborn woman's gaze towards her. After a moment's resistance the astronaut caved, looking at her with wide blue eyes. Lips trembled in a rare display of emotion, but even so the doctor's heart skipped a beat at the all-too-familiar reality staring back at her. "You're alive…"

How could this be? It didn't make sense. How could it? It was madness. And yet it was madness with a pulse and blood trailing down towards her eye, oozing from a slice in her already-scarred brow.

"Sam…" The sound of her friend's name seemed to make it real, and joy washed over her. But it was tempered by the fact that it seemed to finalize something for the blonde woman as well. Her lips twitched as she pulled in a tight breath, her hand seeking the doctor's free one to grip it tightly.

"Janet?"

The uttered query fractured the dam, and Samantha Carter burst into tears.

Dr. Janet Frasier held her as she crumbled.


	47. Chapter 47

At the time, a month long survivalist training program had seemed like a good idea. She'd had the vacation time saved up, it gave her kudos with the command by keeping her field skills up, and the idea of living off the land with absolutely no contact with the outside world had been more than appealing. She thought she'd be avoiding the death counts of both overseas wars, the newest flu panic of the season, and the irritating way work seemed to call her in at the most inconvenient times.

But it turned out she missed a whole lot more than that. She'd missed the revelation that her best friend was alive, after years of believing her dead. But… it still didn't settle right. Amid the relief and joy there was the dark doubt that something was not as it seemed. She was a doctor. She knew what kind of atrocities the human body can withstand and recover from—and she knew what it couldn't. The story of a miracle rescue by charitable natives just didn't cut it.

Those _natives_ had been technologically behind on the times, and no amount of special herbs and spices would have kept Samantha Carter alive after a shuttle explosion. And the fact that the same woman whose resurrection she missed was now a prisoner in a high security federal prison was a red flag of its own. Something was fishy, and her friend was stuck in the middle of it.

If it really was her friend. She'd seen Sam's x-rays before, studied them. And she knew that the scans that had come with the prisoner did not match. She knew that this woman in Cell Block Alpha was missing some scars and had some that were too old for to not have seen them before. She knew the Samantha Carter incarcerated in her facility had healed bones that were never broken.

But at the same time, in the few instances that Janet had conversed with her, the woman was too like her friend to be an imposter. The mannerisms, the cadence of her speech—what little she said—were all just as she remembered. Just the other day she'd gotten a smile out of the blonde: that had been all the proof she needed. No one could copy that smile.

Which left Janet in a conundrum of discrepancies and exactitudes that left her mind reeling. In the end, for the time being, she accepted the woman as her friend. She couldn't explain it, but the familiarity between them assured her that even if this woman was _not_ her friend, she didn't deserve to be here.

She asked once, that first time they'd come face to face, why she was there. Imprisoned. Her only answer had been a muttered and bitter "You don't know me."

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Ever since, Janet's thoughts remained dark. Her interaction with Sam remained minimal, a result of both a lack of opportunity, and Sam's apathy. Even when Janet cared for her, monitoring her vitals after a stint in interrogation, those blue eyes rarely met hers. It took days before a feverish Sam confessed that she couldn't risk Janet being targeted for knowing her.

It made sense. Janet appreciated it, belatedly, because she realized that if it became known that she and Sam were prior acquaintances, they could force her out. Conflict of interest would be more than enough to get her kicked off Sam's healthcare team, and considering Sam's circumstances, Janet could easily find herself in trouble for knowing too much, and for having reason to care too much. But still Janet had to wonder if it was only a matter of time before she found herself in trouble anyway.

They had never served together—never worked together. They had been friends, but their friendship never really had the opportunity to become widespread knowledge. Even the manner of their first meeting was shrouded in mystery. Janet had been newly installed at the ER on Langley Air Force Base, when a battered and bruised Samantha Carter had been rushed in. She'd had no ID on her, not even her dog tags, and even after she regained consciousness she didn't say a word. She refused to give a name, didn't give them any information on how she'd gotten the fractured cheekbone and cracked ribs.

Janet had recognized the signs of an abuse victim straight off the bat, and her only question was if the woman had known she was pregnant. But when Sam had woken up, her hand immediately splayed against her abdomen, and Janet knew that she knew exactly what had been lost. She wasn't pregnant anymore.

They eventually identified her, but even then they didn't put her name down on any official documentation. Janet had recognized that she'd wanted to remain anonymous, and it hadn't slipped anyone's notice that the woman refused to name her attacker. The only person whose gaze she met was Janet. To anyone else, her gaze seemed blank with shock; Janet knew it for what it was. Those blue eyes met Janet's and she'd seen the muted calculation, the conscious decision.

Sam had already made up her mind about something—and Janet had known then and there that it would be the last time the blonde would show up in her ER. Before Sam was discharged, still with no names on any record whatsoever, Janet slipped the woman a business card for a support group off base. She hadn't thought it would come to any good, but three weeks later, Janet was surprised to see her at that same anonymous support group for battered servicemen and –women she'd recommended.

Janet was there for her own reasons, but her doctor's eye had been pleased to see most of the bruising had faded. Janet went to the support group to find courage—Sam went to recover, to come to terms with what had become of her. Together, they had found strength and comfort in each other's company, and it was Sam who had convinced Janet she had the strength to kick her abusive husband out and file for divorce.

She was now an independent woman with a healthy life—and she had Sam to thank for it. Now she was even looking to adopt, a feat also made possible by the renowned astronaut, whose idea it was in the first place, after an evening of drinking too much wine and sniffling over a romantic comedy so sweet-it-could-never-actually-happen, and it had just happened. It had been thrown out into the booze-soaked night as almost a joke, but as soon as it was said they both knew it was anything but.

To this day, Janet knew it was what she wanted to do. When she finished her contract up in two years, she would decline the offer to re-enlist, and then she would a civilian job that would have nothing to do with the work that happened here in the facility. Maybe another gruesome ER somewhere. Or pediatrics. Working with kids would be a nice change of pace. And then she would start the family Sam had dreamed for her.

She wondered if Sam remembered that night. Maybe she'd ask her, once the Mission Commander was returned from her current round of 'treatment'.

* * *

General Landry was normally a very patient man. In fact, he saw no reason for anyone to be more impatient than he was, and as such responded badly when those over his head pressed him to do anything. Being forced out of retirement had made him irritable, and being forced out of retirement to be treated like a corporal on the quarterdeck made him want to explode.

The decisions made on the issue of Colonel Samantha Carter and her duo of merry men weren't his own, but he was the one forced to act on them. He'd sold his soul, and he could feel the rot eating away at his conscience. He didn't like that either.

So when he was required to make a personal appearance at some pit-in-the-desert prison facility, he was far from feeling pleasant. He was downright pissed, and he figured the Colonel picked up on it as soon as she was escorted into the room.

Even being shackled hand and foot did nothing to dampen the charisma of the hardened leader, and blue eyes sharpened piercingly on his frame from above bruising dark circles and hollowed cheeks. Her skin was too pale, and Landry didn't enjoy seeing firsthand what his actions had wrought on a woman who had been nothing short of amazing—regardless of where she came from.

But the defiance in her gaze made it easier to shed the regrets and harden his features to level a glare at the younger woman. She was far from intimidated.

"Colonel Carter, I'm surprised at your reluctance to offer your knowledge."

Her eyes were coldly calculating, and Landry suddenly felt as though he were under the microscope here, and not her. It was then that he was reminded that this woman posed a very real threat, for as long as that inimitable mind of hers continued to function.

"So far our questions have been fairly general, and even if you had chosen to answer, the answers wouldn't have helped us very much." He eyed her, his jaw tight. "But today I am here for a very specific reason."

Icy eyes followed him as he opened the large black case sitting on top of the table between them. The inside was thickly padded, ensuring its contents would be protected from the damage of jostling. It contained two items, and as Landry pulled out the first and rested it on the table, he had the satisfaction of hearing a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, good," he said cordially, as he fished for the second item. Finding it, he placed it next to its counterpart. "We were hoping you would recognize this."

But her face remained dispassionate, now carefully schooled rather than disinterested. He'd caught her attention, and the cold calculation of before was now a nearly visible whirring of cogs and wheels behind her eyes.

"Your scientists would know what these are if they bothered to read the reports from Alaska," she delivered. "What do you want from me?"

Landry smirked. "We know what they are, Colonel. But according to those same reports, the only person on the planet who can operate these devices… is you."

Sam stared at the ribbon device, resting harmlessly on the cold steel table in front of them. It was dormant now, but in the right hands—her hands—it could destroy this entire facility. _She_ could destroy this entire facility, single-handedly. It was an idea she briefly entertained.

"You do know that one of these is a weapon, right?" she asked, her low tone threateningly impish. The SFs installed behind the General snapped to the ready, their sidearms aimed in her direction. She eyed them, a smile playing on her lips. She was unimpressed, and when she made no move for the hand device, Landry lifted a hand for them to stand by.

He met her gaze, undaunted by her irreverence. "I do. In fact, we're counting on it."

"Why?"

"These were recovered from a tomb in Egypt. There's no indication who the tomb belonged to, and there was no trace of any Goa'uld residing there." He'd seen the alarm in her features, and was once again convinced that this threat, this Goa'uld, was a credible threat. He swiftly moved on. "We want someone on our side who can use it, Colonel. After all, if what you say is true, and this Ball character is on his way to destroy us, any weapon we can use in the fight against him would be beneficial. It would be beneficial for everyone involved."

The message was clear. If she agreed to play assassin for them, fight their fight for them, they would get her out of this hell hole. But she knew better. She'd only be trading one hell for another. Because how long would they wait for Ba'al to arrive before turning the weapon on someone else? Until they reverse-engineered it into something any average human—any average _soldier_ could use? Government-issue hand devices… Now there was a thought.

"If you're worried about Ba'al, then let us _fix it_."

Landry didn't even blink. The _it_ she spoke of wasn't on the table. "Not gonna happen."

Sam took a deep breath, settling back in her chair. Against her wrists, the chill of steel reminded her that she'd known the answer. But still, she'd had to try.

"I used one of these once," she said coolly.

Landry nodded. "Against the Goa'uld Seth. I know."

"Then you know that he ended up chest deep in three feet of solid rock." Again he nodded, and Sam felt anger burn at the edges of her vision at his state of unconcern. He was so naïve it would almost be comical, if not for the fact he was using it to strong-arm her into becoming a one-woman hit squad.

"This is a weapon of the Goa'uld, General," she continued. "It is triggered by emotion, and the only emotions a Goa'uld feels is greed, hate, and rage. Using this device that single time gave me nightmares for months."

In that single moment underneath that compound, she'd succumbed to every dark emotion that lurked in the furthest corners in her mind. That one moment was all it took to collapse Seth's ribcage, and the rest of him too. She'd seen what had remained when they extricated Seth's body from the bedrock. Everything from shoulder to knee had been reduced to soup in a bag of flesh.

Banishing those thoughts, Sam leaned forward, pegging the General with a hard stare. "I never used it again. Not even when my own command asked me—and I trusted them. There's no way I'm going to do it for you."

"Colonel—"

"You've taken my memories, my identity, and my freedom," she delivered, her voice a low growl. Landry swallowed, unsettled by the sudden shift in tension. "You don't get my soul."

She held the stare for a long moment, before finally settling back once more, satisfied that the point had been made. Landry stared at the Colonel, who was once more unruffled and dispassionate. This time, he knew for certain—they had blown any chance to make her an ally by making the decisions they had.

The worst thing about it was that the Joint Chiefs wouldn't give a damn. He already had standing orders, should this be her decision. He bobbed his chin towards the waiting orderlies, who stepped forward. "Get her out of here," he ordered brusquely.

The moment he spoke those blue eyes that held him in thrall dismissed him just as clearly as he had her. She stood, turning to give the orderlies greater room to take her by the arms. They seemed used to the accommodation, and their grip was relatively gentle.

Landry watched her leave, but she didn't look back. Dismissed.

With a heavy sigh, Hank turned his gaze up to the camera that had recorded the entire interaction. When he spoke, it was to the man he knew would be watching on the other end of the feed.

"Your turn, Doctor."


	48. Chapter 48

The decline in Sam's condition was sudden and distinct. Janet knew something had changed, but she was not privy to exactly what that was. All she knew was that the interrogations lasted longer, and after each one Sam came out more exhausted and more disoriented than she had the one previous. Over the course of three weeks, she had her friend on an IV feed no less than four times. And following the latest round of questioning, Sam remained unresponsive for a heart-stopping hour and a half.

But none of that compared to the panic of finding an empty and unlocked cell in Alpha block, devoid of any sign of habitation. For a brief moment she let herself hope that Sam had escaped. But then she saw the stripped bed and the red light of the recording camera. She didn't escape—she'd been transferred.

"Who moved the resident in cell 419A?" she demanded, skidding to a stop in front of the nurse's station. The nurse on shift, Lucy, looked up in startled surprise.

"Um… 419?" she clicked the number into the computer, peering at the screen. "It says here she was transferred to… oh." Her voice got quiet, and brown eyes looked up at Janet with somber eyes. "To the east ward."

Janet's gut dropped sickeningly, and she froze for only a beat before dashing away. The East Ward was the ward no one spoke of. No one outside of it knew exactly what happened within it; no one wanted to know. All that was truly known was that no prisoner who was transferred into it ever came out. Maybe they were shipped elsewhere from there, but Janet had no preconceptions. She wasn't naïve. She knew what kind of place this was.

She had made a point to not go near that ominous white door that led into the bowels of hell, but today, today she charged straight through it, desperate to catch up to Sam before something horrible happened. By some stroke of ungodly luck, the first hall she turned down terminated in a single door… and one peek through the grated window yielded the blonde-head she was searching for.

A swipe of her access card unlocked the door—a feat that surprised her. She hadn't thought she would have access here, but she did, and she didn't overthink it. She focused instead on the white coat hovering over the patient, adjusting an IV feed.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, stalking forward with as much authority as she could draw into her small frame. "I didn't authorize this patient for transfer…"

It was then she saw the medical restraints that strapped Sam to the bed at the wrists and ankles, trapping her immobile as tubes trailed down to bury into the crook of her arm. Janet instinctively moved to undo the buckles that cinched the leather straps tight, only for the unfamiliar doctor to intercept her before she could even get close.

"You're not supposed to be in this wing, it's restricted—"

"This woman is my patient, and I did not authorize a transfer—"

"You do not have authorization to give, Captain," the doctor said—a Dr. Halstrom Ph. D., per his ID badge… not an M.D. "This is not a hospital. You give care, but you do not _have_ patients. The decision was made far above your pay grade."

Rage burned in the pit of her stomach. "That's not the point here—"

"It is," Halstrom corrected. "And you have no business in this ward."

Janet's lips parted to fire back a scathing retort, but was diverted when she heard Sam's sudden intake of breath, the heart monitor kicking up to an above-normal pace. Something was wrong. "What have you given her?" Janet demanded forcefully. "She's not well enough for this. You have no idea how her system will react to a drug of any kind—"

"That's exactly the point, Captain." His voice betrayed the almost childlike fascination he held for his new patient—his excitement.

It turned her stomach. "You can't do this—"

"It's already done," came the cold interruption.

"Doctor Frasier…" Sam's soft voice drifted up from the bed, and Janet glared at the doctor briefly before storming past him to reach the bedside. Her gaze carefully met her friend's, keeping her expression neutral. She didn't need to frighten Sam, despite her own racing heart that paced the beeping heart monitor beat for stuttering beat.

"Commander—" It was the greeting of a professional. The friends were buried, hidden from Halstrom's view. But even so, Janet could swear she heard her own voice shaking.

Sam offered her a weary, close-lipped smile. "It's okay," she said. Janet hated the peace in that familiar voice, the resignation. No more hope. Never hope. Only acceptance.

But despite her serenity, Janet could see the glaze to her dilated eyes and the fever flushing her skin. Her skin was already damp, speaking to the drugs already being pumped through her veins. And her hands worked minutely, clenching intermittently as she bit back the growing pain. And it was pain, Janet knew. There was no mistaking it.

Sam must have seen her resolve weaken, because she shook her head minutely. "Please… don't… don't get into trouble… over me." Her words were metered by the tension in her chest, as her core muscles contracted against the urge to pull against the restraints. Her jaw was tight, no doubt swallowing her growing panic.

"Sam…" Her name was a whisper on Janet's lips. All she had to do was give the word, and Janet would do it. Do what, Janet wasn't sure. Whatever it took to keep her safe, no matter the cost. But blue eyes only hardened, turning to icy chips that glittered as she looked away. It didn't escape Janet's notice that her head pressed back into the thin pillow beneath her head—a tell-tale sign of discomfort.

"Get out." Pale fists were clenched, and remained that way. Janet hesitated. "Go. Get away from me."

Halstrom took the opportunity to approach then, almost gleeful in his patient's now clearly audible orders. "Captain—"

"I'm going," she spat viciously. Her voice was tight, bitter. But she knew what Sam was doing. What she always did. Self-sacrifice. Helping Sam would only bring trouble, and they both knew it. But Sam was unwilling to be the cause of whatever punishment Janet would face.

As she stormed out of the room, letting the door lock itself electronically behind her, Janet managed to keep her composure. But she walked quickly, knowing what the quickening heart monitors had meant. What was soon in coming.

For years, Janet had felt her soul slowly leech into the darkness of this hospital, this detention center. Now, for the first time, she'd found a way to get it back. That was what she focused on as she briskly traversed the long hallway. But she didn't reach the exit fast enough.

The thin veil of control Sam had exerted had been as frail as Janet's, and before the now patient-less doctor could escape, the hall echoed with the wails of a victim trapped in hell. Her friend's guttural howls dogged her footsteps as she began to run, bursting through the door to the ward as she gasped through her now-pouring tears. There she stopped, desperate to catch her breath and her bearing. She succeeded in neither.

With the pain-wrenched screams of Samantha Carter ringing in her ears, she emptied her stomach on the glossy tile beneath her feet.


	49. Chapter 49

Jack stared at the computer screen, his eyes burning with lack of sleep. But he didn't rest, didn't stand up to stretch. He was gripped with a single-minded focus that had eluded him for years, and in the back of his mind he was reminded of that singular night he'd come home to find the house shrouded with paper and a distracted Samantha in the thick of it. He wondered if this was how she'd felt.

He was on the verge of something—he could almost taste it. His efforts to find Samantha had been spurned, and it had been several days before he'd realized that while he may not have the power of the United States black ops community behind him, he had a new sphere of influence.

His training gigs at Scott AFB were the closest to a desk job he would ever come, but even that was more administrative than he cared to acknowledge. The arranging and commencing of training exercises was a feat of a huge network of individuals, a network whose trust and admiration he had long since earned. So when he'd asked his supply clerk for help, it had been given willingly.

Chances were, wherever Samantha was being held would be off the grid. It would not officially exist in any documents, and any mention of it would surely be kept eyes only. But it would be a military installation or some derivation thereof, and as such… well, they needed to eat, right? They'd need to eat, use the head, sleep on government issued sheets—and the supplies needed to do all that would need to come from somewhere.

So he'd asked his supply officer to make some calls, do some inventory tracking with her colleagues in the surrounding bases—both in-state and out. She'd followed his instructions to the letter, and soon had provided him with an imposing pile of data. And once her look of suspicion had faded—after all, why would he care so much about supply?—she'd even sat down to help him.

They looked for unidentified destination codes, or codes that didn't match the records. He'd hoped it would be as simple as looking at the inventory itself, but every single unit in the Air Force needed food, bandages, and linens. But for every dead end they found, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing where she wasn't. It was a small blessing, but as he plugged away, and ruled out more and more locations, it snowballed.

And now he was on the verge. He stared at the computer with renewed vigor, blinking away his exhaustion. He had to finish this batch soon. Now.

The shriek of the telephone sent him skyrocketing, sending papers flying as he scrabbled to find the damn thing. "Goddammit—" He found it and slammed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Colonel Jack O'Neill?" The voice was female, but not one he recognized.

He was instantly on guard. "Depends on who's asking."

"My name is Doctor Janet Frasier."

"What do you want?" Jack followed quickly.

There was a beat of silence. "Sir… there's a matter we need to discuss, privately."

"You can start now."

He could hear her hesitate, but when she answered her voice was strong. "I need to speak with you about Samantha Carter."

* * *

Jack was early to the café he'd designated for the meet. It was open, with a good vantage for him to keep an eye out for unwanted listeners. And it was public, on a busy street where people were in a hurry and too self-involved to eavesdrop. He ordered himself a coffee, black, armed with only a napkin.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

He looked up at the voice, and found a small brunette eyeing him carefully. She was wary—good. She wasn't stupid. And he could see a strength in her posture that seemed almost a contradiction to her diminutive size.

"Janet Frasier?"

She nodded, then briskly sat in the seat across from him. " _Doctor_ Janet Frasier."

"Oookay..." _Sheesh._ "You had something from me?"

"Sam Carter needs help."

He straightened minutely. "You know where she is? Is she all right?"

Her eyes darkened. "Yes, I do. And no, she isn't." He stared at her, waiting for her to continue. "She's being held in a top-secret, high-security prison ward out of state. I was her primary physician while she was there."

"Was?"

"She was transferred. To the science department, for all intents in purposes." Jack bit back a curse, as his stomach dropped out from under him. They'd done it. Those bastards had followed through on their threat. She was a lab rat.

"I agree," Doctor Frasier said, correctly reading his distaste. "She doesn't have much time."

"How did you know where to find me?" Jack asked suddenly.

She didn't even blink. "Phonebook."

"And how did you know my name?"

At that, her gaze fell. "She told me. She didn't mean to, I know it. She was delirious at the time, but I thought you might be willing to help me. If she's any kind of friend to you as she is to me…"

Jack took a deep breath. "She is. And I want to. But I can't."

Frasier's eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed in anger. "What do you mean—"

"I mean I can't." She didn't need to hear about Charlie. If she was willing to help Samantha, then she didn't need to be frightened out of it. "I wouldn't be any good to you anyways. I'm too closely watched."

"So you're scared, is that it?" Her voice was cold, and razor-sharp. "You know, for the life of me I couldn't figure out why Sam was there in the first place, why no one was making a fuss about her being suddenly _gone_ , but now it's starting to make sense."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You obviously didn't care—"

"That's not true." His own voice lost its sputtering indignation and descended to a rock-hard edge. It was enough to stop the fire-cracker in her tracks, which was victory enough for him to forcibly soften his tone again. "You called her Sam…"

"She's my friend. I've known her for a long time." She was well aware of the fact that many people knew Samantha. A precious few knew Sam. She was one of the lucky ones.

Jack nodded, accepting it at face value. How would he know better? Though, it was surprising that the all-seeing eye of the joint chiefs would overlook catching something like that. But then again, maybe they had hoped to use it to their advantage. Who the hell knew?

"I can't help you," he repeated finally. "Don't tell me anything else. I can't know."

The doctor's eyes hardened, but she gave a curt nod. Not quite appreciative, but maybe borderline understanding. She stood to leave, unwilling to remain if he was unwilling to help. But as she turned, his voice called her back around.

"Hey, Doc…" She turned to faced him once more, impatience clear in her eyes. "You got some coffee on your shirt." He waved vaguely towards her blouse, and she accepted the proffered napkin—his only one, how chivalrous—before she realized she hadn't had any coffee to spill. She hadn't even ordered.

She glared at the napkin now in her hand, a searing retort on her lips, but then she saw the dark scrawl of a furtive marker on one side. She blinked her shock away, and leveled a solemn gaze towards the Colonel, who had leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm as he sipped his coffee.

"Thank you."

The colonel swallowed. "Don't mention it."

She turned then and walked away—she didn't look back. She dabbed at her blouse as she departed, keeping up the charade in case anyone really was watching. But as soon as she was back in her rental car, she uncrumpled it and spread it out against the steering wheel so that she could read it.

_Daniel and Cam_

Two names she'd also heard in the exhausted mumblings of a worn out Mission Commander. But she hadn't ever had last names to go on, and had given up on finding them. Jack O'Neill had been relatively easy to locate by comparison. But she didn't need last names anymore.

The center of the napkin was an address, still in Illinois. Hope sparked in her once more as she read the smaller scrawl down below it.

_They'll help you._

Simple, short, and to the point. But those three words imparted more hope than she could have thought possible. Moments ago she'd been ready to admit she was on her own. But now, if the Colonel was right, then she now had two more people to help her. And that might mean the difference between life and death for her friend.

Her eyes flooded with tears to the point she almost missed the inside flap of the napkin, which had its own address permanently scribed into its fibers. She wiped her brimming tears away to peer more closely at it. The address wasn't any more familiar than the last, but this one had a state tag for Minnesota.

Then, a little arrow swooped towards it, from a second little note written below. _Safe house_.

Janet choked back a sob of relief, and not a little gratitude. The failure that would have been hers alone turned, and suddenly she began to hope that it would creep over the edge to a shared possibility.

This might just work.


	50. Chapter 50

Their plan wasn't really a plan. It relied mostly on Janet's report that, given the top-secret nature of the installation, there were rarely any break-ins. The goal of the security guards posted at the entrances and exits were mostly to keep people in, not out. And Janet's information only provided the outline of a plan. The rest of it would be mostly improvisation—a fact that Daniel and Cam seemed relatively at ease with.

Janet had been shocked by the readiness, and the skill, of the two men the Colonel had led her to. Well, she'd been shocked period. When she'd knocked on the shabby motel door, she'd seen curtains twitch as someone peered out, and then the startled blue eyes of a man who stared at her like she was… well, she wasn't sure what.

He'd stared, and then without her needing to say a word she was ushered into the suite. She soon learned that the man who'd answered the door was Daniel, and his companion was Cam. Cam was the one who did most of the talking, at first. Daniel had simply stared, only he pretended he wasn't when Janet tried to catch his gaze.

But as the topic of conversation moved beyond introductions and more towards the purpose of her visit his shock melted into anger. It simmered darkly just beneath the surface, controlled but no less volatile than a wildfire. They'd picked her brain, asking pointed questions that told them all they needed to know about what they were up against. Janet had been wary of getting her hopes up, but when neither of them faltered for even a second at the daunting situation she presented them with, she felt her spirits lift.

They weren't daunted by the prospect of going up against trained soldiers, or the fact that they might end up in the same place as Sam if they failed in their mission. As hopeless as the situation seemed to Janet, they planned and pondered as if it were a foregone conclusion that they would succeed. In a matter of days—though it was a series of days punctuated only by Chinese take-out and a continuous stream of coffee— they managed to design a workable plan.

It took more time than Janet was willing to give, but even that wasn't as long as she had anticipated. They were all been keenly aware of the minutes that passed, knowing that each second gone was one second that could put them too late. They reasoned that Sam would be kept alive as long as possible—after all, what was a science experiment without its guinea pig? But they all knew the assurance was a hollow one. In a situation like this, the concern that their subject might die was as equally important as the information they'd gain by learning _how_ she died.

The whole surreal experience had taken the space of a long weekend—which Janet explained to her superiors as a passing bout of food poisoning after spending so long in the field. It was justified by the fact she was seen on the security cameras puking her guts out near the East Ward. But now she was feeling more nauseous than ever before, as she waited for the clock to reach the mark.

Her two new friends were waiting in the parking garage, where the SFs were new and inexperienced, and Janet was sure that Cam and Daniel could pass into the facility with a minimum of fuss. After all, in with young recruits like that, acting the part was just as important as the credibility of identification. Which Janet was sure those two could handle.

Janet glanced at the clock, and as the second hand overlapped the minute hand, she tapped a command into the computer, and then stepped away from the nurses' desk. Daniel and Cam were on their way now, dressed in the pale white of orderlies' scrubs. It was a disguise that would hold until they could grab Sam and get out. Even if someone on the skeleton crew of a Sunday afternoon managed to sense something off, chances were they wouldn't know what to do with them. So much was ignored or overlooked here… two men didn't make much of a difference.

But they didn't run into anyone, and in barely five minutes Janet met them at the east ward door. She met their gazes carefully, heavily. It was now or never. With bated breath she swiped her card through the lock—and by some grace of god there was an electronic beep and a buzz as the lock released. Her gaze met theirs, and then they pushed through the door together.

* * *

The place was too cold. Too clinical. Even the SGC, with its subterranean corridors and gray palette had been warmer than this. But Daniel's thoughts quickly returned to the fact he wasn't there to comment on the décor. Of course, that tiny little voice in his mind whispered that any place that didn't make their environment warm and inviting was not a place Sam should be. Because hospitals this unwelcoming were hospitals where saving lives wasn't the priority.

The thought turned his stomach, but he kept moving, following Janet around the bend. Janet. Janet Frasier. He still couldn't believe it. She was exactly the same as she was in his timeline. Seen a little too much, maybe, and she didn't have Cassie, but the fire, the dedication, the edge… it was all there. And good thing too, or else he and Cam would still be chasing their tails. But now they had a plan, and as they neared a door that could only be their destination, he felt his gut tighten in anticipation.

Janet swiped her card again, and the door buzzed open. Sucking in a breath he stepped into the sickly pale room, his eyes immediately caught on the only bed in the place. His heart stopped in his chest when he saw the pitiful figure strapped to the mattress.

Sam.

"Sam!" Daniel was at her side in an instant, cupping her cheek to lift her lax features towards him. She was half-turned on her side, as though she had almost been able to reposition herself before running out of slack in her restraints. One arm was locked straight, pulled away from her body at a forty-five degree angle, and her legs twisted at the knees to try to push herself over. He tried to ignore the multitude of tubes and wires issuing from it, but the beep and whirr of the machines they led to was a cacophonous constant in the background.

"Oh, Jesus," Cam muttered, wiping his hand over his face. He'd never seen Sam like this before, except for maybe the time he'd been stuck trying to keep her alive and breathing in that out-of-phase bubble. Daniel hadn't been there for that, and he was glad for it—the memories being churned to the surface now were anything but pleasant. But this was different. Even then, when she'd been so close to death, she'd had the freedom to fight for survival. She didn't look like she was fighting now.

And these machines weren't saving her life—they were ending it. Slowly but surely, they would eventually leech the life from her.

It was Adrian Conrad all over again, Daniel thought as he searched Sam's face for any sign of response. Only this was worse, because at least with Adrian Conrad, she'd had the surety of knowing that her team was searching for her. This time, there'd been no hope of rescue.

It didn't matter that they'd come, despite the odds. Sam had no reason to believe they were coming, that she'd even be missed. No doubt she'd even hoped that they would remain safe, secluded. Daniel was glad they hadn't.

"Sam," he said again, tapping her cheek lightly as Janet moved to inspect the chart hanging off the foot of the bed. "Sam, please, open your eyes."

Her cheek was chill against his hand, pale and delicate. A thin tube trailed from one nostril, taped to her cheek, and ascended to terminate at the base of a hanging IV bag, heavy with a mealy, cloudy mixture. "Feeding tube," Janet said softly. "There are orders here that she's not to be released from the restraints at any time." Not even to feed herself.

Daniel believed it. He could see the red rashes on her wrists beneath the padded straps, indicating that she'd drenched the pads with sweat at some point—then been left in damp restraints to let the residual moisture irritate her skin. They were almost raw too; not bloody, but she'd been pulling, tugging against them in a futile bid for freedom.

"What did they give her?" he asked, knowing they didn't have much time.

But Janet shook her head. "I don't know. I don't recognize any of the medications listed here."

"What's all these machines?" Cam asked. "Are they hurting her?"

Janet set the chart aside to examine the contraptions. It wasn't anything she'd seen before, but two tubes in particular made her wonder. Both led to her arm, taped in place, and they were dark with pulsing blood.

"I think it's a dialysis machine," she said finally. "But not like any dialysis machine I've ever seen."

Daniel swallowed, realization dawning like a freight train. "They're mining." Janet blinked, but Daniel looked to Cam. "They're harvesting the Naquadah from her blood. They don't have any on Earth except what's in Sam's veins."

Before Cam could respond, Daniel felt Sam twitch. His gaze darted back down to his friend, his heart in his throat. Eyes rolled beneath her lids, and her heartbeat hitched on the monitor as she worked her way back to consciousness.

"Yes! Sam," he urged softly. "You can do it… C'mon…"

When her eyes finally fluttered open, it seemed to take her a moment to realize she was awake. And the moment she did, her body spasmed, jerking against the restraints in instinctive panic. Her back arched, but the straps refused to give.

"Daniel, for god's sake keep her calm," Janet urged over the screaming monitors. "Her system's going crazy."

Daniel didn't need to be told twice, but he was still almost too late. Sam relaxed against the bed, still pulling against her wrist restraints, but now almost feeble as her eyes rolled back in her head. "Sam? No no no! Look at me, Sam!" He tapped her cheek, opening her eyes once more. But her blue eyes were dazed by the drugs in her system, and she struggled to focus.

She groaned.

"Sam? Can you hear me? It's us, Sam. We're gonna get you out of here—"

She blinked sluggishly. "D'n—D'niel…" It was slurred, barely audible, but relief crashed over Daniel with crushing force.

He nodded frantically. "Yes, Sam. Daniel. And Cam. Cam is here too. You—Do you remember us?"

Her chin twitched, which Daniel interpreted as an affirmation. He met Cam's gaze, who was almost grinning. But it didn't banish the concern.

Daniel's attention was pulled back to Sam, whose throat clicked as her lips moved in a whisper he couldn't hear. "Sam…?"

" _Please…_ "

He heard that. He glanced briefly at Janet, who nodded and immediately got to work, clamping off the tube that was drawing the blood from her veins to the machine. But as soon as her cool fingers touched Sam's skin, Sam jerked again, pulling away from her as far as she could as her eyes flew open. Her breaths quickened, grunting from between her lips with the effort.

"Sam, it's okay," Daniel told her, gripping her hand tightly to keep her grounded. "It's Janet. You remember Janet, don't you?"

"Of course she does," Janet cut in, her voice hard with determination. Her small hands gripped Sam's cheek, turning her to face her as her other hand came up to brush blonde bangs from sticky skin. "Sam—Sam!" Sam froze. "I know you're scared. But I also know you want to get out of here."

Sam didn't move, which they all took as a good sign.

"In order to do that, I have to disconnect you from this machine, okay? Just stay with us for a few more minutes, and then we'll be out of here. We don't have very long."

Sam blinked, and Daniel could tell the adrenaline of panic was fading. Sam didn't have very long either. But then she murmured softly, and Janet gave her a soft smile. "Good girl."

And then she was working again, clamping off the tubes with expert efficiency. The mechanics was the easy part. Helping Sam recover from the drugs would be another matter entirely. But when Daniel moved to unbuckle the restraints, Janet stopped him.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"These monitors are likely being transmitted to an independent observation station. As soon as the leads are removed, we'll have maybe 60 seconds before someone comes to reattach them. If you unbuckle her, and she decides to start helping us out, and starts ripping off sensors—"

"Sam wouldn't do that," Daniel countered swiftly.

Janet's eyes narrowed. "Sam's barely lucid. There's no telling what she might do. If she rips off the sensors too early, then none of us are getting out of here."

"Then we're really screwed," Cam delivered solemnly. Janet nodded.

"So the leads are the last thing we remove, and the straps next to last," Daniel confirmed. He looked to Sam, and was somewhat relieved to see that she had passed out again. Her heart rate was still too high, and her breathing still too shallow, but at least she was out of it.

He held Sam's hand tight as Janet did her thing, and smoothed damp hair from her forehead. He'd never been an overly tactile person, and neither had she. It wasn't in either of their natures, but at the moment, he needed the connection, as if she'd slip away again if he let go for even a second. And as Sam's features twitched in distress as Janet pulled the feeding tube free, Daniel wondered if their hands were the only touch of kindness she'd felt since her capture.

"All right," Janet said, once Sam was completely disconnected. Some tubes still dangled from her arm, but they didn't have time to remove them now. She could do it later, when they were somewhere safe. Cam stepped up to the bed, remembering their plan. "You got her?"

He nodded. "You bet."

Janet looked to Daniel, whose hands were already drifting to the restraints. She helped, and as soon as Sam's hands and feet were free Cam gently hefted her up into a fireman's carry. Then he paused, and Janet came around the bed to reach for the leads.

"You guys ready?" she asked. They all nodded. "Let's go." She disconnected the leads, and then snatched the clipboard that contained Sam's medical chart before sprinting down the hall after the two men. Daniel kept up easily, even with his prosthetic leg. Janet attributed it to the sheer force of will that arose from the need to protect his friend.

Their exit was easier than their entry. They took the employee's entrance, which led directly to the parking garage. Their only resistance came in the form of two SFs, who snapped to attention as Janet stepped into view. But their weapons lifted when they saw Cam in his white uniform, carrying Sam over his shoulder.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask to return to the facility with the prisoner," said the first.

The second guard jumped in with, "We have no orders that indicate a transfer today."

Janet approached them calmly, and offered them the clipboard she'd stolen. "Here are the documents that say I'm authorized to transport this resident to another facility for specialized testing. She's—"

The first lowered his weapon, and as he reached for the clipboard, his partner grunted and spasmed, then fell to the concrete floor of the garage. The weapon came back up, but before he could even bark a warning he joined his friend in a puddle on the ground.

Janet looked to Daniel, whose form was now visible behind the guards' position. He smirked, and lifted his Taser in a friendly salute. He'd removed the projectile cartridge, rendering it to a close-range, multiple-use weapon. "Not quite a zat, but still…"

"What's zat?"

"You ladies coming or what?" Cam shouted from farther down the line of cars, already opening the door to the white-paneled van they'd acquired for their mission. "Get ready to drive, Jackson!" he instructed roughly, gently lifting Sam's limp frame into the back of the van.

And just like that they were off. The trip through the security station was made with thumping hearts and bated breaths, but they'd moved too quickly for the alarm to have spread. They were waved through and then they were gone, barely following the speed limit as they left the facility behind.


	51. Chapter 51

There was no reality. She floated disjointedly from sensation to thought, unable to link them to anything solid. Nothing tangible, nothing concrete. Maybe she was dead, this time.

She'd thought she was dead before, or at least it felt like she had, but not too long ago she'd felt something sear through her veins, burning her and poisoning her and flaying her alive. _Agony._

Maybe it had finally killed her. Maybe it was finally over. But she was still alone, so a part of her wondered. Jack should be here, waiting for her. He'd waited so long for her, and she for him. He wouldn't mind waiting a little longer.

But then she heard a voice that wasn't his or hers. It thundered in her ears, muffled and cacophonous all at once. It hurt. Then everything hurt. With a scream locked in her throat she surged towards the surface, pulling against the long, sticky fingers that threatened to pull her back, drown her.

It was warm, tighter than it had been before when they'd let her up for air. It pressed in on her, crushing her, and then she was suffocating, her lungs compressed to the point that she couldn't suck in a breath.

She really was dead. They'd boxed her up, put her away to be kept in a coffin until they sliced her open and studied her corpse. Why was she still there? They already had her body, why did they need her mind too? Had they already cut out her brain? That's where the mind was. Maybe she was trapped in a preservation jar, her mind soaking in formaldehyde. That's what was drowning her.

 _No_. They'd taken everything else. They wouldn't take Jack from her too. Her Jack was waiting, and though he would wait as long as he had to, she wouldn't. She wouldn't wait an eternity in a glass jar. Somehow, strength came where she hadn't had it before, and she clawed her way up, still fighting for air.

But try as she might, her ribs remained leaden, refusing to lift, and her lungs had no room to function. No air. Her grip on her surroundings, that close press of air—which she now noticed was rumbling slightly—began to slip away. Or maybe _she_ was slipping.

Nothingness swallowed her, pulling her down and her thoughts grew sparse. Huh. Maybe she hadn't been dead before. _Couldn't breathe_.

Well, she supposed now she really was dying.

* * *

"Janet." The sound escaped Daniel's lips in a choked gasp. He felt his eyes turn on him, but his own gaze remained frozen on Sam. "Janet—she's not breathing!"

A curse caught on Janet's lips; she didn't let it slip. She instinctively grabbed for a limp arm, her fingers searching for a pulse. She found one: weak, thready, and rapid, but there. "Daniel, do you know CPR?"

He nodded, swallowing his growing panic. "Yeah."

"I need you to perform rescue breathing."

"Compressions?"

She shook her head. "No. Just the breathing, and only when I say." She would time them, and make sure he didn't panic. She was glad to see he was already getting into position. He hadn't been lying when she'd asked if he knew what he was doing. Part of her wondered if this man had served with Sam, at one point. "Now."

The man's lips pressed around Sam's, creating a seal as he exhaled into Sam's lungs. Janet watched carefully, and was relieved to see her friend's chest rise with the borrowed breath. Then she started counting. When she cued Daniel, he did the same thing again, the metered actions keeping him as calm as either of them could possibly hope for. She could see the panic in his eyes, and then the relief when Sam sucked in a breath of her own, remembering how to breathe without help.

Her fingers remained on that tenuous pulse, but mirrored Daniel as he rocked back onto his heels, rubbing a hand over his features. He was fighting tears, she could see, and after a moment he felt her gaze on him. Blue eyes lifted—not as blue as Sam's, but close—and met hers.

"This wasn't supposed to happen to her," he murmured, his hand clutching the Commander's. "Not to her."

"How long have you known her?" Janet asked quietly. It was a topic they'd yet to breach; it hadn't been important. Now, somehow, she felt it was.

Daniel blinked. "More than a decade, now." A mirthless laugh passed his lips. "It doesn't feel like that long, in some ways."

Janet knew the feeling. Some days it felt even longer. "She never mentioned you."

It was all she said, and he didn't respond, but Janet's thoughts jumped into double-time. More and more didn't make sense. Janet couldn't claim to know of everyone in Sam's life. But this man, and his companion to a lesser degree, had the air of someone who knew Sam inside and out. Like they'd spent every waking day together for years. Someone, she felt, Sam would have mentioned, at least in passing.

But now wasn't the time for that. They still had miles to go before they reached sanctuary, and the hollowed-out van they were using wouldn't be their only vehicle. Somehow they would have to change vehicles, and do it while keeping Sam as stable as possible. Considering that the first stages of withdrawal could kick in at any moment, Janet's optimism was thin at best. It would be rough for all of them. But they would do it. They had to.

* * *

Jack was waiting for the pounding to start, and when the racket first sounded at his door, he opened it just before it was busted down by a burly shoulder. He pasted on a welcoming smile, gesturing with an open beer he had yet to drink from.

"Well, gee… hiya, Hank," he drawled, stepping inside to let the fuming General enter his home. He didn't have anything to hide.

Landry barreled his way in, his demeanor conveying his disregard for Jack's hospitality—he would have gained entry to the man's apartment with or without permission. "Where is she?" he demanded furiously.

Jack smirked. "Wow. Déjà vu, huh?"

"Don't dick around with me, Colonel," Landry rounded on him. "Where _is_ she?"

"Where's who?"

"Samantha Carter," came the ground out response.

A graying brow lifted. "Oh, her. Why didn't you say so in the first place?" When no answer humored him in return, Jack shrugged. "Not a clue."

"Jack—"

"Sorry, General, but last I saw, your goons were dragging her off the street in downtown Chicago, after which you refused to disclose any information regarding her location. I'm out of the loop, or have you forgotten the fact you shut me out?" Hank glared at him, but Jack remained unfazed. "Unless you've decided to impart some little nugget of intel, I can't help you."

Dark eyes bored holes into his, but Jack was impassive. He knew what this was about, but kept his expression until Landry coughed up the news. "Samantha Carter has escaped federal custody."

Now, a grin spread over Jack's features, unabashed and unashamed. "Did she now?"

"Don't play games, Colonel. I know she had help, and I know Janet Frasier had something to do with it."

"Who?"

"The woman whose call you took eight days ago. And don't tell me you don't remember—"

Jack waved his beer at the man. "Oh, I remember. Yeah, she said she wanted to talk about Samantha Carter. She never gave her own name, but I advised her to get some help… after all, if she thought she could help a dead woman…" He'd been ordered to forget all about Samantha Carter; so what if they thought he'd followed instructions to the letter?

Landry's features flushed with rage. But the equal parts frustration and helplessness was what gave Jack his satisfaction. His turn to have his hands tied. He couldn't in good conscience make Jack's life hell without due cause, and he wouldn't find any evidence that would give him said cause. Hank was good—Jack was better.

"Have you had any contact with Daniel Jackson and Cameron Mitchell?"

Jack hesitated. "Well, I bought Jackson's book. But last I heard, he'd gotten lost somewhere near Giza." He swallowed his smirk along with a gulp of his beer. "Think the Egyptians would let you mount a search and destroy mission?"

Landry simmered for a long moment, then forcibly took a deep breath, keeping his anger in check. "Colonel, you are hereby ordered to surrender all knowledge and evidence regarding the location of Colonels Carter and Mitchell, and Dr. Jackson."

Jack stepped aside, granting him unhindered access to the rest of his home. "Search the place if you don't believe me. I got nothing."

Their glares clashed, but Jack's was reinforced by the weight of a guilty conscience. His was stronger. "I followed orders this time, Hank. After all, Charlie's the most important person in the world. I wouldn't risk him. You won't find anything here."

Hank regarded him for a long moment. "No," he said finally. "I don't think we will." A loaded statement.

But really it came down to what the general decided to do. It was his call really—he could choose to lock Charlie up and reassign Jack to McMurdo, and none of the Joint Chiefs would bat an eye. It didn't matter if he had cause. He could make something up for all they cared. It only mattered on whether the once-retired general would be able to live with himself come morning.

"If you have any further contact, with any of them, you will contact your superiors," Landry told him. "That's a direct order, Colonel." And in that moment the battle of wills was lost. Or won. Depending on how you looked at it.

"Yes sir." It only sounded a little fake. With a dash of mockery.

The general chose to overlook it. "Enjoy your evening."

"Oh, absolutely." The thin ice he was treading on crackled treacherously when Landry eyed him, as though rethinking his decision. But in the end he signaled to his SFs, who exited crisply without a word. The door closed behind them, and Jack took a moment to lean against it, a grin playing over his features.

Relief, triumph, and satisfaction all vied for supremacy. He knew his small part in Janet Frasier's attempt to help Samantha didn't even begin to make up for his failure in protecting her, but it was a start. And he could stomach his guilt now that he knew she was safe out of the reach of the government.

That was all that mattered.


	52. Chapter 52

The cabin—the infamous O'Neill cabin smack in the middle of the Minnesotan woods—was a much-welcomed reprieve from the rest of the world. It was a respite they all found they needed. Janet had tossed her career out the window, and had earned the rank of fugitive in the space of a week. It wasn't a decision she regretted in the least, and she had to admit that being on the same level as Daniel and Cam had a sort of dark appeal.

She didn't know exactly what they had done to have gotten on the wrong side of the government, but in the end she decided it didn't matter. They had all done the wrong thing for the right reason, and it was all made worth it by the woman sleeping in the master bedroom.

It had been touch and go there for a while, Janet reflected. She'd done what she could to try and figure out what had been pumped into Sam's system, and the few that she deciphered were more potent than anything she'd ever encountered before. And Sam's system had borne the brunt of it, leaving Janet certain that death was imminent on more than one occasion.

But somehow, she'd pulled through. Probably because the woman was too damned stubborn to die. That, and she'd had more than one person praying for her. Daniel refused to leave her side; often his only rest was what few moments of sleep he could get while sitting propped in an uncomfortable wicker chair by the bedside. Cam had visited frequently, but he had taken up the role of guardian. He often walked the perimeter of the property, ensuring that all was well before returning to take up post by the front window.

Janet bounced between the three of them, doing her best to keep them all healthy. It was a struggle and a half, but she'd soon learned that a stern glare would be enough to cow Daniel into relative obedience. Cam followed his lead. But Sam was another matter.

It had been a little over a week since they'd made it safely to the cabin, and she had yet to fully wake from her drug-induced stupor—a fact for which Janet was more than grateful. It was hard enough to witness the shakes and tremors that wracked that thin frame as her system worked to flush the poison from her veins. And when the fevers and sweats came, Janet was glad Sam wasn't lucid enough to know what was happening. It would only be a passing discomfort—the commander wouldn't remember it.

It was all she could do to keep the woman hydrated. Daniel helped. His voice soothed Sam, and seemed to dispel the moments of confusion and panic enough to let her slip back into oblivion. Their only hope was that they were now on the tail end of it all. Soon, they would know just how bad the damage was—how lasting it was.

And maybe, just maybe, Janet would get some of the answers she was looking for.

* * *

Daniel was almost dozing when he saw Sam's eyes flicker open. Her breathing had been steady for several hours now, assuring him she was finally getting some true rest. He sat up a little straighter, as her eyes cleared, staring up at the ceiling then around the room. Her eyes seemed to pass straight through Daniel, and his alarm remained muted as her lips curled into a gentle smile of recognition. She was home.

But then he saw her hand slide beneath the covers, blindly questing for the body she felt should be there. A body that had died on the Tok'ra homeworld. As soon as he thought it she seemed to remember, her hand falling still as the poignant void next to her jostled her memory. And then Daniel was witness to reality crashing down on her, and the vague nightmare was remembered for the reality it was.

Her eyes closed, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye.

"Sam…" She didn't respond. "Sam… It's Daniel."

Her head turned, falling to the side to look up at him with damp eyes. "I know who you are," she chided, a thin smile passing over her lips as if it would hide her exhaustion and pain. It didn't, but Daniel let her have the pretense.

"Well, that's a relief," he half-joked. "Cuz, you know… Cam was worried."

"Who?"

Daniel's sharp look of alarm was met with another, more honest grin. It was one he joined in on, belatedly appreciating her attempt at levity. Sam took the opportunity to lever herself up to a sitting position, and winced when she moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Daniel scooted closer, wary of leaving his chair altogether. Sam had never been keen on hovering. Unless she was the one doing the hovering.

"How do you feel?" he asked gently. Now her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched as she braced herself straight-armed against the mattress beside her knees. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Daniel waited; as a soldier, she had a habit of taking a complete inventory before answering. It was better than a hollow 'I'm fine'.

Her shoulders finally twitched into a shrug. "I dunno," she mumbled.

Somehow, it sounded hollower than a lie. Whatever she meant by it, a chill raced down Daniel's spine. Now he could hear her exhaustion, and he could only hope that was all it was—though he knew it wasn't. She'd been through a lot; too much.

She inhaled, her shoulders shuddering as Daniel heard the thick tears deep in her chest. A pale hand lifted, trembling, to cover her eyes. It was then that Daniel moved, abandoning his seat to sit next to her on the mattress. His arm found its home around her shoulders, and with barely a squeeze she turned and wrapped her arms around him.

His arms embraced her gladly, though he couldn't help but notice that she'd lost some of her muscle mass. She wasn't as solid as she usually was; now she felt like a wind might knock her over. And the fact she was shaking in his arms didn't dispel the thought. Her chin tucked against his shoulder, and in moments his shirt dampened from the tears that escaped her control.

"I missed you," she whispered, her breath light against his neck.

His hand rubbed gently against her back, up and down in soothing motions. "Me too," he answered simply. "Me too…"


	53. Chapter 53

Janet poked her head into the bedroom some hours later, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her patient was sleeping. At some point Daniel had moved to the bed, and Sam must have awoken more fully, because they were now curled up together. Daniel reclined against the headboard, slack-jawed and mouth open as he breathed. Sam's arms were wrapped around his midsection, her head pillowed on the muscles of her friend's chest. There was evidence of recent tears, and her features were still more haggard than Janet would have liked, but finally it seemed like the worst was behind them.

With a smile on her lips, she silently closed the door, then turned to meet the gaze of Cam, who stood watch at the front window. "They're both sleeping," she told him softly.

He nodded without taking his eyes from the woods outside. "Good. They both need it."

"So do you."

But Cam only shrugged. "Aw, I'm all right. I got the easy job."

Janet didn't bother to push it. Instead her thoughts turned back to the scene she'd just witnessed, and the questions that had been floating in her mind for days. She sat lightly on the arm of the nearest sofa, her gaze fastened on Cam as he turned back towards the window.

"So," she offered lightly. "Are Sam and Daniel…?" God, it was like she was back in high school.

Cam glanced at her, but when he looked away a wry grin split his features. "They're friends, ma'am." But he clearly knew something she didn't. He knew a lot of things she didn't. She wasn't surprised the friends were so tight-lipped. They were a careful pair, and something told her Sam was much the same way. There was that same guardedness in the Commander's blue eyes as well.

What shocked her more was the warmth that washed through her at Cam's candor. She'd have to be blind not to notice the toned physique and gentle eyes, but she was surprised at how much she'd come to value the man's trust in her. It was a trust Cam didn't exhibit, and though she couldn't explain it, the bond they seemed to share had made it easier to face the future she'd thrown herself into. It was a relief to know that maybe she wasn't imagining the could-have-beens in his gaze.

"I've noticed you've let Daniel have the most time with Sam," she continued, pushing aside her thoughts. "Do you mind if I ask why that is?"

She half-expected him not to answer, but he shrugged fairly quickly in response. "I've known Sam personally for a lot longer than Daniel has, since we met in the Academy. But those two have been serving together for a long time—that sort of bond trumps mine. And if it makes Sam more comfortable to have him around, then so be it."

"That's chivalrous."

"Not really." Cam's tone was gentle, but matter of fact. Just as he was looking out the window to the forest, it seemed as though he was on the outside of Sam and Daniel, looking in. It struck Janet as interesting, and she filed it away for later. "They both lost someone, recently. They haven't had a chance to grieve… Being able to grieve together will make it easier, I think. Maybe."

Janet accepted that with a heavy nod. But it only gave her more questions. Recently, Sam was dead. What had she been doing instead of lying six feet under? Had she gotten roped into some secret ops mission that had gone horribly wrong? Who had she lost? Was that why she had been in that facility? Had she been accused of war crimes?

It just didn't make any sense, and that wasn't even touching the issue of the mismatching x-rays. She wasn't even sure this was really Sam. But somehow, she sensed that Cam wouldn't give her the answers she was looking for. He seemed to defer to Daniel when it came to sharing information—they were both so reluctant, sometimes, like they were protecting her from something.

But that was absurd. She barely knew these men. And yet, she felt that the closer bond she felt with Daniel might give her the courage to ask those questions. Later. For now, they all needed rest.

She rose to her feet, and headed for the kitchen. "I'm going to make some lunch," she told Cam. "Want some?"

When he shrugged his affirmation, Janet was left to her bewildered thoughts. What had she gotten herself into?

* * *

When Sam opened her eyes again, her first impression was that she was warm. Not hot, like a fever. But pleasantly warm, a borrowed heat she shared with the familiar body under her cheek. _Daniel._ She'd recognize that mouth breathing anywhere.

But then her next impression was the sickening churn of her stomach, sending her scrambling from the bed reflexively. Daniel woke with a snort, but she was already gone, dashing to the bedroom door. But neither of them had accounted for her muscle loss, and her knees crashed to the hardwood when they buckled underneath her.

Sam barely had the presence of mind to snag the trashcan next to the door before her stomach clenched, pushing its meager contents up her throat and out into the hastily acquired bin. Tears poured down her cheeks as she heaved, again and again even after she was bringing up nothing but bile.

Daniel's careful hands pulled her hair away from her face, and Sam's cheeks flushed when she realized the effort was too little, too late. But the thought passed quickly when she continued to wretch. Somewhere off to the side the door opened, and a gentle hand brushed her arm.

Janet. Sam gripped the smaller hand tightly, unable to speak beyond the muted grunts and moans she managed to squeeze out between each cramping of her gut. Janet squeezed back, though her free hand lightly monitored her pulse. It was Daniel who rubbed gentle circles against her back.

"It's okay, Sam," she was told softly. "Just ride it out… We expected this." Sam leveled a hefty glare in the doctor's direction. Easy for her to say. "Yeah," Janet delivered glibly, as though reading her thoughts. "I know."

Sam attempted a deep breath, tentatively hopeful that the worst was past. But the moment of peace ended with another violent heave, and Sam was left hunched miserably over the trashcan. As if to top it all off, Cam arrived on the scene with his usual finesse.

"Aw, now, that takes me back." Cam leaned against the door frame, his features tightened to hide the undercurrent of concern that churned beneath. "I thought you learned your lesson back at the academy?"

Sam honestly tried to resent him for bringing up _that_ painful memory. But it was so good to hear that drawl of his that she could only fight the smile that twisted her lips between heaves. _Nice to see you too, Cam_. She hoped he heard the sentiment, despite her current inability to speak without spewing. She managed to glance up at him, and was glad to see his smile was a little bit easier. He nodded, accepting her greeting with gentle reassurance.

After what felt like ages her stomach calmed, and she was finally able to rock back on her heels with a groan. Someone passed her towel, and she wiped her mouth. Suddenly, her eyes felt heavy, her momentary burst of energy flickering out like a candle. But Daniel was right there against her back, supporting her and rubbing her shoulders like he couldn't get enough of the contact. She wasn't complaining.

But for all her relief, she couldn't bring herself to meet their gazes now. She stared at the towel in her hand, the reality of the last… God, she didn't even know how long it had been. But the reality weighed on her, the facts clear despite the confusion in the timeline. _Timeline_. She hated that word. But the fact was that her friends had given up everything to save her.

She'd expect it from Daniel and Cam, but Janet… Janet had everything to lose, and yet here she was. Janet was a ghost to them like Sam was to this timeline. It was surreal, and there was only one way to address it. By ignoring it.

"Please tell me there's running water here," she quipped with a raspy croak. She needed a shower. Badly.

Janet offered a smile of relief. Apparently, she was of a similar opinion to Sam. "I'll help you get cleaned up." Her pointed look dared Sam to argue with her, and Sam's heart clenched at the sight of it. She'd missed her best friend. Missed her too much. "Give us a minute, Daniel, will you?"

Daniel hesitated, until Sam gave his hand a pat and nodded. She'd be okay. When he had closed the door behind him on his way out, Janet inspected her more closely. Sam let it happen, trying not to cry at the gentle, familiar touch. So kind, so warm, so unlike anything she'd experienced since her capture.

"How're you feeling?" Janet voiced softly.

Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. "Like I just tried to puke my liver up through my nostrils." Janet's mouth pursed into a displeased frown. "Sorry," Sam offered.

But Janet's features instantly softened. "I know. Sarcasm was always your first line of defense." A bright light was flashed into Sam's eyes, making her shrink back violently. The light disappeared. "All right, so you're still a little sensitive. That's all right."

Sam's lips parted, but Janet beat her to it. "So long as I keep my penlight out of your eyes, I know."

Janet got to her feet, then carefully helped Sam up as well. Their eyes met for a long moment, arrested by thoughts too heartfelt to voice. It struck Sam so odd it was almost comical—two dead women, both alive and both without words, neither sure what to say. But Sam knew where to start.

"Thank you."

Tears sprang to Janet's eyes, but before she could say anything in return, Sam listed slightly, her balance faltering abruptly. Janet steadied her, then graced her with a tight smile. "We can talk later," she assured her friend. "For now, let's get you in the tub before you pass out completely, huh?"

"A bath…" A bath sounded like pure bliss. Sam could feel her hair plastered against her skull, limp with accumulated oil and grime. And her skin crawled, as fleeting memories of hands and prodding fingers played at that back of her mind. "That sounds good," she said finally.

Janet nodded. "Thought so… But we take it slow, and when we're done you're back on bed rest for the rest of the day. You're still not quite up to speed."

Sam didn't have the energy to protest. "'Kay."

One of Janet's arms wrapped around her waist, helping her into the bathroom, while her free hand gripped Sam's firmly. A brief silence passed, but when they crossed the threshold into the adjoining bathroom, Janet broke the silence.

"It's good to have you back, Sam."

Their linked hands tightened on each other, conveying the calm familiarity that was so inbred. It occurred to Sam that she didn't really know this Janet—but she did. Janet may be different in that she was still living here in this reality, but the soul was the same. That same healer's soul was still there. In the facility it had been tarnished by too-white walls and a dark purpose. But here in the light of day it shone as bright and beautiful as it ever had in the true timeline.

"I missed you too, Janet."


	54. Chapter 54

When Sam was clean, it was all she could do to get to the bed before her strength left her completely. Daniel knew he should let Cam have some time with her, but he lingered in spite of himself, with a nod of understanding from Cam as he shut the door to give them some privacy.

Daniel took up perch on the edge of the bed, tense with both need and aversion. He had questions, questions that refused to wait. He had to know, but at the same time he dreaded the answer he might get. And he had to ask soon, before Sam fell back to sleep again.

"Sam?" She didn't answer. "Sam, you awake?"

Blue eyes opened, the struggle to pry them open not escaping Daniel's notice. "Am now."

Daniel almost smiled. "Sam, I need to ask…" Her eyes focused on him acutely, listening with such intensity that it almost startled him. But she, of all people, shared his enthusiasm for knowledge, knew how important it was. She had always listened to him—it was more than he had done for her, sometimes. "Sam… when you lost your memory…" Her gaze darkened, but she remained silent, letting him continue. "Did they do it? Did they make you forget?" His voice caught in his chest. "Did Jack—?"

"No." Her voice was hard. But he had to wonder if her vehemence was as much for her own reassurance as it was for his. "No, I…" She trailed off, her eyes straying as though trying to sort through her own memories. He wondered if she really did have them all, now, or whether there were still gaps. "I think… There was an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"It was dark… raining. I lost control…"

She didn't sound all that certain, and Daniel wasn't certain either. Sam might be a speed demon, but she'd never, ever lost control. She'd always maintained an eerily natural control at the helm of whatever vessel she drove, whether it was her Indian or an X-302. She wouldn't just lose control, especially if it was raining. Risk management was one of her fortes.

"I wasn't driving," she continued, her tone still hesitant. Still working it out in her head. "I _wanted_ it to go out of control. I— _oh, Jesus_ …" Her eyes widened, then narrowed in acceptance. Whatever it was, she had it. She was sure of it. "It was Pete."

" _Pete?_ " Daniel's voice betrayed his shock. Not an answer he was expecting. "Pete crashed your car?"

"The bastard tried to kidnap me," she confessed bitterly. "He rushed me at the house, and then the next thing I know I'm handcuffed in the front seat of a car, being taken god knows where." Tears welled in her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily. "I almost stopped caring, Daniel," she whispered, her voice dark. "I almost let him do whatever he wanted… I didn't care. I was so tired of being someone I wasn't, I just…"

"But you crashed the car. You got away."

A mirthless laugh greeted his ears. "Did I, Daniel? Or did I just trade one captor for another? Because the way I see it, my life was hijacked anyway. I crashed myself straight into the hands of the people who stole my identity and turned me into a goddamn guinea pig."

For a long moment, Daniel didn't say anything. Anger burned deep in his gut, but he had no business sharing it with her. No doubt she more than enough of her own anger to deal with, on top of the shock and trauma of whatever she'd experienced in the past few weeks.

"I can't believe Jack would stand by and let that happen," he said finally. "I can understand his reaction on the sub, but this… Jack wouldn't do this."

Sam pulled in a long, shuddering breath as she fought her brimming tears. "I don't think he wanted to, Daniel." Her voice was small, uncertain—vulnerable. "I know he was trying to protect Charlie, but… I think he was trying to protect me too."

"That's no excuse—"

"They put him in an impossible position, Daniel. He could have washed his hands of me after he saw me in the café. But he didn't. I don't know how they wrangled him into it, but when he had the choice to either care for me, or unload me onto someone else, he made the only choice Jack O'Neill could make."

Daniel didn't know anything about any café, and something told him that Sam was lacking some of the details herself. But he was sure that beneath the betrayal of what had happened, she still understood what Jack had done for her.

For a moment, Daniel pitied her. The powers that be in this timeline had perverted the one immutable law of the universe, twisting it to their own advantage. Samantha Carter and Jack O'Neill were connected, on a level no one else could fully understand. Daniel doubted if even Sam understood. Jack certainly wouldn't. Maybe if he had, he could have prevented all of this from happening altogether by never contacting her in the first place.

"Daniel…" Her voice was thickening again, but this time with exhaustion rather than tears. He looked up to meet her fuzzy gaze, her eyes already starting to droop. With a deep breath, she fought to stay awake. "I'm trying really hard not to hate him," she said softly, struggling to remain coherent. Tears glittered angrily in the corner of her eye. "And I hate myself for feeling _anything_ …"

Anything for him. For Jack. This world's Jack. It had crossed Daniel's mind briefly, when he'd seen Sam and Jack together in that suburban town square. In the anger that had followed, he had labeled the affair as just that—an affair. Sam was married, and it didn't matter if the man in this world shared her husband's face. This Jack and the true Jack were two very different people, and no amount of justification would make that fact go away.

The notion had faded, when concern for Sam had taken precedence, but now he could see the guilt and self-loathing lurking in her eyes. It had festered for weeks now, he was sure, after so long in isolation with nothing but her thoughts for company. And suddenly, his earlier anger softened, morphing into understanding. After all, he of all people should know—they were immutable. It would only be through sheer force of will that Sam would be able to stay away from this world's Jack. And without her memories to remind her of what she'd lost, she hadn't known any better.

"He'd understand, Sam," Daniel told her, his voice low. And Jack would. Jack would always take the high road where Sam was concerned—Daniel knew that as clearly as he knew his love for Sha're. Jack had always asserted that he was the lucky one, that he was blessed that Sam would even look at him. He would swallow the jealousy and the hurt and hold her even tighter.

But Sam wouldn't have it. "No, Daniel… He might have understood but it doesn't make it right. And I know—" Her voice trailed off abruptly.

"What, Sam?" Daniel prompted.

"When Kawalsky and Dr. Carter came through the quantum mirror, I saw…" Her throat worked as she swallowed her growing tears. "He kissed her. Jack kissed her, and I know she wanted him to stay there, with her… I remember what it felt like, seeing them together. But this—this is so much worse."

A sharp breath whistled past her lips as she finished, and it was then that Daniel really how close to tears she really was. He reached out to touch her, but she drew back from the gesture, her head shaking furiously as tears scattered down her cheeks. "Don't," she bit out. "No, you're his best friend. You're not supposed to forgive me for him."

"I'm your friend too, Sam." But he could see where she was coming from. He'd known her for too long not to.

"He's the one who deserves the friend right now, Daniel. Not me."

The better part of him wanted to contradict her, defy her. But he didn't. That wasn't what she needed. Maybe she'd be more receptive later, when the drugs had been out of her system longer. He could only hope. With a sigh, he pulled back. "All right," he offered.

He drew himself up to his feet, and spent a long moment looking at her. His hand itched to rest on her shoulder, take her hand… but he refrained. "Is it all right if I send Cam in?"

She shouldn't be alone, and Cam was neutral. Well, neutral with a greater tendency to side with Sam. He didn't know Jack beyond professional acquaintance, and that could only be for the best right now. At the very least, he might put her at ease enough to get some sleep.

He was rewarded with a nod.

He left without another word, summoning Cam with jerk of his chin. The door closed on the two Colonels, and Daniel maneuvered himself over to the couch. As he sat heavily, his thoughts burdened with too much emotion, he was acutely aware of the prosthetic attached to what was left of his knee. Belatedly, he wondered if Sam even remembered what had happened in the Arctic.

With more than a hint of melancholy, a tiny voice in the back of his mind wondered if Cam would be the only one to come out of this whole.


	55. Chapter 55

When Janet came in from the kitchen, she was surprised to see Daniel in the living room instead of Cam. But the man's apparent ease and the closed bedroom door was clue enough that all was well with her patient. With all of her patients.

And now she was presented with the perfect opportunity to approach Daniel about the questions still simmering in her mind, just itching to be answered. But she kept her stride measured and even as she crossed to sit next to where Daniel sat on the sofa, his pant leg rolled up as he adjusted his prosthesis. He tried not to react to her proximity, but Janet could see his frame tense as she settled on cushion next to him.

"She's not really Sam, is she?"

The question took the man off guard, but not nearly so much as she would expect from a man free of deception. And in that moment her suspicions about Sam were confirmed beyond any shadow of a doubt. But instead of betrayal and horror she felt only confusion.

Why the charade? Why keep the truth from her? She'd sought _them_ out, not the other way around. She'd clearly been ready to sacrifice what she had to save their friend. She waited for an explanation.

Daniel sighed. "She is Samantha Carter. She's just… not the Samantha Carter you know."

"What does that mean?"

For a long moment, Daniel hesitated. She saw him gathering his thoughts—whether to tell her the truth, or to spin a lie, she wasn't sure. "It's a long story…"

"We've got time." She was on the verge of finally getting some answers, and she wasn't backing down. Not this time.

It was a long moment before Daniel seemed to realize that no excuse was going to come riding to his rescue. Cam and Samantha remained quiet behind their closed door, and there was no phone to start ringing, no visitors to ring the doorbell. He was stuck and they both knew it. Janet was counting on it.

"She's Sam Carter, but she's not the Mission Commander."

Frustration bubbled up in Janet's gut, but she refused to let it show. "But she has her same smile, the same tics… That's not something you can fake."

Daniel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Janet… I—I don't know how much I can tell you. We don't belong here, none of us. This isn't our world, and we're trying to go home, but we can't."

"Why not?" She didn't know what he meant.

"Because it puts everything you know at risk. Everything everyone knows. In order for us to go home, all this will disappear."

Janet blinked. "Are you terrorists? Is that why Sam was incarcerated?"

"No. Yes." Daniel tried to backtrack. "Look, it's confusing, and there's really no way for me to explain without you thinking we're crazy—"

"Oh, I'm halfway there already," she delivered smoothly. She was trying to withhold judgement, but Daniel wasn't giving her much of a choice. He was spewing gibberish, and she knew he damn well knew it.

He sighed. "Look—"

"Daniel, I've never seen you before in my life, and yet you look at me like we were best friends. And Sam tells me over and over that I don't know her, that she doesn't know me—"

"It's true. All of it."

"Then you tell me how she knows my name, and how she recognized me as soon as I recognized her. She _is_ my friend."

"Yes, she is. But she's not the friend who you've known all these years. She's different…"

"Because of the shuttle crash? I saw the scars on her forehead—"

"Not because of the shuttle crash. She was never on that shuttle, Janet," Daniel uttered carefully. "And Mission Commander Carter didn't survive the crash. She died. Her body was never recovered."

Tears burned at Janet's eyes. She still didn't understand, not completely, but something clicked. Her suspicion was confirmed, even if her mind couldn't wrap itself around the particulars. Her friend was dead. That woman in that bedroom was someone different. Not the right Sam.

"Then why was she locked up?" Janet asked, working past the lump growing in her throat.

"She's a threat. The guys in DC were afraid what would happen if the world believed Commander Carter was alive. And they were afraid what she might do, to go home."

"And where exactly is home for you three?" She was partially afraid of what his answer would be. Part of her expected to tell her they were trying to return to their spaceship and fly away home to Mars.

"Aw, well… I guess you could say… Crap." A hand rubbed over his eyes, his head tilting back as he gathered his wits. "What do you know about alternate universes?"

Janet's brow arched. "Not much." Besides that it was largely theoretical and rarely taken seriously in polite company.

"The theory is that there are many different versions of reality; like a stack of books with the same characters, but each one marked by different decisions, and the events triggered by those decisions. Some are very similar, but others are vastly diverse."

"So… you think you're from one of these… books?"

Daniel hedged slightly, his lips pulling into a grimace. "Not exactly," he returned finally. "More like, someone took our book—mine, Sam's and Cam's—and erased the last fifty pages. They changed a specific point in our story, and then rewrote the book from there."

Janet processed that for a long moment. . "You're talking about time travel. You're saying someone changed the past."

"Yes!" Daniel chirped excitedly. "Yes, exactly!"

But she shook her head, trying to dispel the growing shroud of insanity. "And yet, you didn't get erased with everything else."

Another moment of hesitation from Daniel. If he was going to feed her a line of bull, he might as well have the decency to be forthcoming about it. But before she could tell him so, he continued.

"We had jumped out of the book momentarily, at the instant everything reset. When we jumped back into it, it wasn't the same story. It wasn't the same story. Sam's dead, Cam was never born, and…"

"And you?"

A wry grin split his lips. "Well, your Daniel Jackson is where I used to be, before I was recruited by the Air Force. That part wasn't really surprising. But _you_ —"

He cut himself off abruptly, but Janet caught onto it immediately. Like a dog with a bone, she refused to let it go. "You knew me in this other timeline, didn't you? That's why you looked at me like that when we first met." Or rather, when she first met him. He'd already known her. God, it was making her head hurt. "You and Sam both looked at me like I was a—"

Like she was a ghost. The same way she had looked at Sam, that day in the facility. _Dear God_.

"You died almost five years ago," Daniel supplied softly, reading the path her mind had taken. "In combat. You refused to leave a wounded airman, and you were caught in the crossfire."

Janet's throat closed in an instant, the growing lump threatening to strangle her. It was suddenly very real. However crazy, however outlandish, the grief in Daniel's eyes was honest. So incredibly heartfelt that she could no longer dismiss his story as a mere fantasy.

"Oh my god…"

"You saved that man's life that day, Janet. You sent him home to his pregnant wife, and that little girl has her father still. Because of you." He was trying to reass1ure her, but she couldn't swallow it. "They named her Janet."

Janet felt tears burning at the edges of her eyes. But she couldn't afford to lose it. Not yet. Not here. Not with Sam in the next room. Not-Sam.

"Tell me something else," she pleaded, her voice edging into desperation. "Something happy about me—about her, in your world. Not death. Not—not that."

Daniel's eyes widened, then warmed with sudden inspiration. His features softened, and the tension bled from him as he reached out and covered her hand with his. "The first year we met, we rescued a little girl named Cassandra from a poisoned village. She lost her family, her home… everything." His gaze locked on Janet's holding her captive. "You took her in. You adopted her. Raised her. Loved her. And she loves you."

Sobs locked in her chest, freezing her lungs and riveting her to the spot. For a long moment, the world went silent around her, and a roaring in her ears was all she could comprehend. But then the weight of Daniel's earnest truth slammed into her with the force of an avalanche, and Janet could barely find her feet in the tumultuous waves that threatened to swallow her whole.

Daniel moved to help her, but she waved him back, finding steady ground a few feet from her previous perch on the sofa. She pulled in one lungful of air, and then another. "I need to go outside," she managed, after a conscious effort to keep her stomach from crawling up her esophagus.

"I need some air."

His response was a nod, and a concerned word of warning to stay close. Like she needed it.

She barely made it to the end of the short little pier at the edge of the lake before she shakily lowered herself to the rough wooden planks. The forest that had once been vibrant with life and warm with security was now pale, stark in the light of her new knowledge. But still she gazed at its reflection in the pond, still and smooth as glass.

If she dropped a stone into it, she knew it would shatter as her own world had done.


	56. Chapter 56

Janet spent over an hour on the dock, her thoughts spinning dangerously. Periodically she would come up for air, staring into the serenity of the surrounding woods. It really was beautiful. Perhaps they could live out the rest of their lives here, quiet and unnoticed. It would be rough, especially when winter hit, but it would be a simple existence that just might be peaceful.

But even as she stared at her unwavering reflection in the glassy pond, the shadows of doubt lurked in her mind. Her best friend was dead. It didn't matter that her doppelganger was sleeping in the house behind her. It didn't matter how much she'd wished that this Sam was the real thing. It didn't matter if Daniel's half-story was crazy. Her Samantha Carter was dead, her body never recovered.

Was she dishonoring her memory by helping these people? Was she betraying their friendship by feeling a kinship with _this_ Samantha Carter? What if this Sam was a villain, more dangerous than any other of the prisoners housed in that facility?

The thought was dismissed almost as soon as it took shape. It didn't matter what kind of person this Sam was. No one deserved that kind of treatment. It had been more than incarceration, and worse than interrogation. Sam had ceased to be a person, in those final weeks, and no one deserved that.

But what would she do now? She couldn't go home. She didn't have a home. She'd drifted from assignment to assignment for years now, with no roots, no lasting ties to anyone. No ties except to Sam—Sam, who was truly dead and gone.

Even so, she had to wonder if her presence here now was honoring or defiling Sam's name. By consorting with these people, who could very well be terrorists for all she knew, was she working to destroy everything Sam had worked for? But somehow, she knew that she had done the right thing.

After all, Sam had given her life to save her crew. To protect the human lives she'd been entrusted with. Janet had done the same. Regardless of what came next, she had done the right thing, and Sam would be proud of her.

But what did come next? Would the others be content to live out their lives here? Something told her they wouldn't. They had no love for this world, that much was evident. She had no idea what had happened to these people before she'd met them, but she was certain that Sam's plight had only fueled an already present flame of resentment.

If they tried to return to their time, or wherever they came from, Daniel had said it would mean the end of everything she knew. Would she go with them? Would they let her? Did she want to? To sully the name of the woman they knew, to be in the same boat their Sam was here, in this foreign world… Could she risk what came with that decision?

Did she even believe Daniel?

She didn't know. She wasn't sure of anything at that moment, except for the fact that she had jumped into this situation feet-first without thinking to see where the bottom lurked. Any minute she could find out the jump was a short one, and slam into the bottom of the pit with bone-crunching force. Or she could only fall deeper.

And this other her… this Janet they'd known. Who was she? How did this different Janet Frasier compare to the life she'd led here in this world? That Janet who had died a hero's death and left the legacy of daughter she'd always wanted…

It couldn't be her. The way that Daniel spoke of this other her, it seemed that Janet had never stood by and accepted the things she had. _That_ Janet had never compromised the way she had.

Maybe that's how it should be. Even if Daniel and Sam were willing to corrupt their own timeline by letting her come with them, who was she to tarnish the memory of their own Janet, so good-hearted and pure? She wasn't that woman. She couldn't ever hope to be. She'd compromised too many times to be that kind of hero.

Now different questions flooded her mind, and when she finally found her way back inside, she was glad to see that Cam was just coming out Sam's room. It was no longer Daniel's presence she sought, but Sam's. She avoided Daniel's gaze as she slipped into the bedroom, and as she closed the door behind her, she took a careful moment to collect herself.

When she was as steady as she could possibly be, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Sam's eyes were already blinking sluggishly, blearily looking up at her as she sat up in the bed. Something told Janet she hadn't really been sleeping. She wouldn't be surprised—drugs affected people in different ways, and insomnia could very well be a side effect of the half-dozen still lurking in Sam's veins.

"How are you feeling?" It was rote by now, but Janet asked anyway. It was an easy segue into actual conversation. Well, that was if Sam was up for answering without sarcasm. With her being so exhausted, it was a toss-up, and Janet knew it.

Sam pulled in a breath, running her palms along the tops of her thighs. "Better."

Not great, then. And anything was better than the way she'd been for the past week. Simply _awake_ was 'better'. But there wasn't any sarcasm, so Janet counted it as a good thing. She nodded. "You should feel progressively better from here on out, but I need you to tell me if you don't, all right?"

Sam nodded her acceptance. But her blue eyes remained on Janet, taking in her tense posture and nervous edge. Under this Not-Sam's stare, Janet gave up the pretense. "Daniel told me."

The woman's reaction was far more subtle than Janet's own had been. She remained quiet, without so much as a gasp of surprise passing her lips. Her eyes pulled away, falling off to the side as she nodded with measured calm. But beneath her features Janet saw her mind working, processing the new situation with deliberate care.

"How much did he tell you?" Sam asked, her voice husky.

"Enough," Janet answered hesitantly. "That I'm dead in your world… like you're dead in mine."

For a long moment, nothing else was said. Janet didn't know where to go from here. So she was surprised when a hand extended into her field of vision, offering itself to her with a steadiness she envied. She looked up to meet Sam's familiar gaze.

"Hi. I'm Sam."

Janet blinked, but her hand fit into the proffered palm almost of its own volition. "Janet."

Sam's lips curled into a smile. "Nice to meet you."

The tension lasted for a split second, before they both dissolved into laughter. They melted into each other, until their shoulders bumped as they shook with giggles. They leaned against one another, the distance that had erupted between them gone once more.

Janet coughed off the rest of her mirth as Sam grinned. "God, we're idiots," the blonde groaned.

The doctor couldn't agree more. But Janet couldn't be more glad for it.


	57. Chapter 57

The days passed slowly, and without incident. The only way the days were marked at all was the change in Sam. With the reassurance of the renewed bond between Sam and Janet, Daniel noticed that Sam seemed more relaxed, and even Janet seemed to be at peace with what he'd told her. But after that day, the more Sam recovered and the more they saw the effect of what she'd been forced to endure.

She spoke very little, and only when spoken to first. While she seemed to prefer sitting close to either him or Cam, she remained insular, separate from them for all her proximity. And as the haze of the drugs faded completely, the injuries left behind by the car accident become more evident. Daniel frequently caught her rolling her shoulder, her features tight with pain, though she never once complained. And her limp was pronounced when she moved from one room to the next.

She didn't go outside, and she didn't even look at the pond or its dock.

Daniel couldn't even pretend to know what she was thinking. Her features remained passive, muted and shifting only when she offered small smiles in response to his and Cam's attempted humor. Part of him understood her need for space, while needing to be close as well. He tried to learn more about this Jack, by investigating the cabin, but all he found was a photograph of a boy in his mid-teens, jauntily hoisting a fish on a hook, his features split in a familiar grin.

He knew without asking that it was Charlie, and when he wordlessly passed it to Sam one afternoon, he watched as her fingers trailed across the glass face of the frame. "You met him?"

Sam's eyes didn't lift from the photograph, but her chin bobbed in affirmation. Daniel swallowed his questions, though he couldn't deny his desire to know more about this son that their Jack had never gotten to know. What Sam offered him, she offered without him asking. "He's a good kid."

It was all she said, but it reassured him, somehow. As though it affirmed the validity of this Jack's choices; that the sacrifices they'd made had been worth _something_. It didn't make it right—but it made it better. Easier to accept.

Daniel didn't ask her about it after that, and she didn't offer anything else. And somehow, Daniel knew her reluctance to share was as much a veneration as it was shame. She valued the time she'd had with Jack, with this Jack and his son, even though she knew it was wrong.

So he accepted her reluctance to leave the house, her aversion to the dock. And when she declined to join them for a grocery run down in town, he didn't think twice. It didn't occur to him that something was up until Janet caught up to them at the general store, with one last minute addition to the list.

"She wanted you to pick up some Jell-o, if they had any here," she said brightly, her cheeks flushed with the crisp wind chilling the area. But when Cam and Daniel's eyes met, she misunderstood their alarm. "She's all right on her own for a few minutes," she assured them. "She's well enough—"

"It's not her health that's the problem," Daniel told her, dropping his basket and leaving the store at a dead run, Cam close on his heels. Janet followed, albeit confusedly, but they were too late. The house was dark and silent, empty save for a note scribbled in a familiar scrawl.

_Don't follow me._

It wasn't signed. But the message was clear, and the reality settled on their shoulders like a leaden cloak.

"Where is she?" Janet asked, as though she couldn't quite comprehend what she was looking at.

Daniel sighed, swallowing his frustration. "She's gone."

"And she's not coming back," Cam supplied.

Janet blinked, confusion clouding her gaze. "Why would she do that? She's safe here… isn't she?"

Daniel knew that if Jack O'Neill had sent them here, the house itself was safe. But Daniel didn't think that was the problem here. "Safe for us, maybe. But as long as she's here, there was a chance we'd be tracked here. She's the only one of us who's readily recognizable. She thought she was putting us in danger."

"We're already in danger," Janet countered, anger creeping into her tone. "We're fugitives for god's sake!"

"Because of her," Cam explained. "She won't let us be at risk for her. This way, maybe we can stay here. Unnoticed."

"But—"

"There's nothing we could have done," Daniel delivered. All eyes turned to him, but he looked to the window, and the forest beyond. "Whether it was now or later… she would've gone. She'd have found a way."

"We should go after her," Cam said, already scrounging for the keys to their appropriate vehicle. "She can't have gotten far—"

"And what are we gonna do, Cam?" Daniel countered. "Lock her in her room? Throw away the key?" Silence answered him. "She's not gonna stay with us! As long as she thinks being here puts us in danger, she won't stay. As long as they're after her, she won't stop moving. She won't rest."

Janet's gaze fell, but Cam turned and stormed from the house, kicking over a low-standing table on the way out. Janet jerked in surprise, but Daniel didn't. He watched the other man go, before turning to find his own solitude.

Later, he would try to explain it better to Janet. But for now, he needed to escape—just for a while.


	58. Chapter 58

Jacob Carter hadn't wanted to go to Detroit. But Thea had urged him to get out of the house, and maybe make a side trip to San Diego on his way back. Sam had failed to follow up with them, leaving them anxious and worried that something had gone wrong—that Sam had regressed. But as the weeks passed with no word from Jack either, even Thea's hope began to wane.

Which was why she hoped he would visit Mark and his kids—she didn't want to lose the only child they had left. And if Jake were honest with himself, it felt good to get out of the house, away from the suburbs. All those happy families were images he'd never have for himself again, so being an audience to it hurt more than he'd like to admit. But still, there was something about the whole thing that didn't sit right with him.

Sam had promised to call. Promised _him_ she'd call. And Sam had never once broken a promise to him, save one: before her last mission into space, she'd promised to come home safe. That hadn't happened—but he'd understood it had been outside her control. And as much as he loved his daughter, he couldn't help but be proud of the woman he was blessed to call his kid. She was hero, no matter what she remembered.

But this sudden silence from her was foreboding, and when his calls to his contacts in NASA and the Air Force refused to return his calls, he had to wonder if all was as it seemed. But here in Detroit it was easier to shove the questions from his mind, to blend into the crowds and pretend that he was oblivious to the horrors lurking under the surface of their peaceful world.

Which was why when a weight slammed into his right shoulder, he wasn't expecting the familiar voice that came with it.

"Excuse me…" The perpetrator moved on without so much as a glance in his direction, Jacob's heart nearly stopped in his chest. He'd know that mop of blonde anywhere.

He reacted on instinct, throwing his arm out and arresting her in mid-stride. The effect was instantaneous, and an iron grip tightened over his wrist and began to twist even before she turned to face her attacker. But when she did she froze, her blue eyes wide in shock.

" _Dad?_ "

"Sam—" Jacob paused, taking in her appearance with the sharp eye of a father. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and her clothes were over-large and dirty, as though they hadn't been washed in a few days. Her hair—the beautiful hair she'd inherited from her grandmother—was much the same way, dull and flat against her head. She looked haggard, and the thin jacket she wore wasn't near enough to ward off the cold. "What the hell happened?"

Her mouth opened, as though about to answer on reflex. But just as the first stuttering vowels left her lips, she caught herself. Her eyes hardened, a thin veneer of ice frosting her gaze as she turned away. "I have to go—"

She dropped his arm, moving to flee, and only Jacob's combat reflexes gave him the edge to react quick enough to grab hold of her again. "Whoa, wait a minute!"

But she kept pulling away, fighting his hold without actually touching him… as if his touch made her skin crawl.

"Let go…" Her voice muttered at him, her eyes refusing to meet his.

Jacob gripped her tighter, pulling her off the street to the nearest alley. The shadowed closeness of the brick walls seemed to put her at more ease, for she stopped fighting him. But she still didn't look at him. His hand cupped her cheek, but her chin remained tucked, her gaze avoiding him like the plague.

"Sammy, for god's sake… please, look at me."

Something in his voice must have gotten through to her, because a moment later wide blue eyes looked up at him, tremulous with tears and bloodshot with exhaustion. She shook under his hands, her jaw tight with tension. She was nervous, on edge and ready to bolt. What the hell happened to her?

He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed her tears. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he returned. "When you didn't come back, we… your mother and I—Jesus. She's going to be so relieved you're alright—"

"No!" Her hands slammed into his arms, gripping him as tightly as he held her. "No. You cannot tell _anyone_ you've seen me. Not anyone. It's too dangerous, they—"

She stopped suddenly, tripping over her own words. Jake didn't let her pull away again. "They… what? Who's they?"

"It doesn't matter," she countered curtly, her voice dark. "They won't hesitate to hurt you to get to me. They'll hurt Mark, his kids… Mom. You can't tell _anyone_. Do you understand?"

A part of him wondered if her head injury was acting up, making her paranoid. But he recognized the urgency in her voice, the bone deep threat dogging her heels. Suddenly, he was faced with a woman who looked like his daughter, but stood like the soldiers he'd served with. His daughter had died a scientist, but had returned to him a warrior.

It didn't make sense. But as much as it startled him, it thrilled him. Sam had been a pilot, but she had never seen the kind of combat he had. It was something he had never been able to share with her—a fact he had both regretted and cherished. But now a part of him wondered if maybe she had seen some of things he had. Had she been sucked into the dark world of black ops he'd tried to protect her from?

It scared the crap out of him.

"Where's O'Neill?" he asked finally. O'Neill-two-L's had promised to take care of Sam.

But her head shook. "He can't help me, Dad."

"Is he a part of this? Did he threaten you—?"

"No! No, nothing like that…"

"Sam, we haven't seen or heard from you in over a month!" Jacob said, letting an edge creep into his tone. "Whatever it is that's happened, we can help you. Come home."

But she pulled away. "You're not listening…"

"I can protect you—"

"No, Dad. You can't. Not this time." Her words were heavy, saying more than she'd intended. It was in that moment realization crashed down on him. Jacob captured her gaze once more.

"Sam… have you remembered?" She blinked once, as though fearful, and he knew that she had. "How much?"

A beat passed. "Everything."

Jake pulled in a lungful of air. There was weight to her confession; kilos of meaning imbued the utterance with gravitas. There was more to it than he suspected—and he suspected quite a lot. But what it meant, he couldn't fathom. Maybe she'd remembered the shuttle crash, and was taking it badly. Or maybe there was memory lurking in that brilliant brain of hers that she'd kept even from him. Either way, he had to do something.

"Come with me—"

"I can't—"

Jacob cut off her protest with a wave of his hand. "I'm parked a few blocks over. I have something for you. Can you come with me that far?"

But still she hesitated, her eyes shifting to watch the crowds streaming past the mouth of the alleyway. "We can't be seen together," she said softly. "It's not safe."

He clenched his jaw in frustration. But in spite of himself, his own hackles raised, picking up on her wariness. Whatever threat she perceived, it was very real and he felt himself responding to it. "Will you wait here, then? I'll come right back, I promise."

She hesitated. But when she stepped back from him, she didn't dart away. She waited, almost expectantly. He let a smile curl his lips reassuringly, his hand trailing down her arm. "I'll be right back," he reiterated.

He almost ran to his parked car, popping the trunk and retrieving the duffel he'd been driving around for months. He'd often wondered why he hadn't removed it sooner, when she'd first dropped out of sight, but now it all came together. Like it was fated.

When he arrived back at the alley he'd left her in, his heart fell when he found it empty. His rapidly beating heart—the old ticker wasn't as strong as it once was—stuttered with the realization that she had vanished once again.

"Dammit," he muttered.

At his curse, a shadow rose from behind the lone dumpster that resided in the alley. _Sam._ She'd hidden, shielding herself behind the solid presence of the steely hull. What could have happened in the past weeks to make her so wary?

"Sam… I thought—" As she stepped closer, her arms wrapped around herself as she shivered, and he abandoned his thoughts. Dropping his burden he shrugged out of his coat. He swept it around her, settling it on her shoulders even as she murmured a protest.

"Don't argue, Sam. You're freezing." When she'd slipped her arms into the sleeves, hugging it closer to her, he nodded as his thoughts traveled. "Where have you been staying?"

Her glance slid askance, an answer in and of itself. By the state of her, he'd put money on her having been squatting in abandoned buildings, or living off the streets. The idea didn't sit well, but nothing about the situation sat well. He moved on, unwilling to risk distancing her with too many questions. Instead he hefted the duffel off the ground, offering it to her without flourish.

"Here," he said shortly. She hesitated. "Take it. It's yours."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand…"

"It's some of your things, some clothes and such you left the last time you stayed over at the house. Your mother collected them after your visit—thought you might like having them. And we thought that maybe, if you had something familiar…"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't seem displeased. In fact, when he urged her to retrieve the thin case residing in the inside pocket of the coat she now wore, she even almost smiled. "Your glasses," he explained. "Your back-up pair. You weren't wearing them when you visited us, I know, but…"

He watched her slide them onto her nose, and her eyes brightened as her world jumped back into focus. "Wow…" her voice held a hint of mirth. "You don't really know how blind you are until you put these on, I guess. Thanks."

"You're welcome," he returned. But he didn't stop there. Before she could pull away he reached out and took her hand, pressing a thick roll of cash into her palm.

She shook her head, trying to refuse the gift, but he didn't let her. "No, Sam. Take it."

"I can't—"

"You can. And you will. You need it, and if it's the only way I can help you, then so be it." He held her gaze firmly. "Get a room for the night. Then tomorrow, get some supplies. Get a rental car, and leave the city. This should be enough to get you out of state." He paused, then pulled out his wallet as well. He handed her a credit card, one he seldom used—one with a high limit he had yet to take advantage of.

"Use this for the supplies. Make it the last thing you do before you get out of town. Even if they realize it's not me using it, you'll be long gone. Make the cash last as long as you can."

But her fingers refused to curl around the plastic, leaving it heavy in his hand.

"Dammit, Sam, listen to me," he growled. "If you're in trouble, then I'm going to help you, however I can. And you need the help, don't deny it. Be smart about this."

She hesitated for a moment longer, before reluctantly accepting the card. She tucked it into her pocket, along with the cash. It was all he had on hand, enough to get him through his trip in case of emergency. Even enough for a plane ticket home. It would last her long enough, if she used it wisely. But he had one last gift.

"Here." Blue eyes caught sight of the item, and she immediately pulled back.

"No. I can't take that."

"Yes, you can. I want you to."

But she shook her head. "No, Dad, that's your knife. I can't take it."

Jacob swallowed his smile. She really did remember. The knife had been a gift from Thea, many years ago, in the guise of a Father's Day gift from two toddlers. It had come with him on every single one of his tours. He'd cared for it, and in return it had given him comfort and safety… even saving his life a few times.

In her younger years, Sam had admired it, but its sharp edge had urged him to keep it from her reach. It had been venerated, in a way, as well it should have been. It held many memories, all of which he cherished.

"I want you to have it, Sam. Use it if you have to, but even if you don't, let it keep you company, as it did me." He closed her fist around it, and for a moment, their fingers locked around it, holding it in a single grip. "Take it, and remember that if you need anything, I'm here to help you. Always."

Tears finally broke free, spilling down her smudged cheeks. "Dad…"

He pulled her close, and she came without an ounce of resistance. Her arms wrapped around him, squeezing tight as though she were afraid to let go. She trembled, and this time he knew it wasn't because of the cold. His lips pressed a kiss to her temple, his hand smoothing her hair in a familiar motion that he hadn't done since she was a girl.

When she pulled away, he let her go. It was time. "Be safe, Sam."

She nodded, her features falling into a stoic mask. "Tell Mom… tell Mom I love her?"

"I will."

The promise was the last thing she needed. With one last nod of gratitude, she turned and headed towards the opposite side of the alley than where they'd entered. It was long walk, made longer by the shadows that followed her. She didn't look back, not even once, though his eyes watched her until she turned the corner and melted into the sea of people beyond.

She was alone again, but this time she had a piece of him to keep with her.


	59. Chapter 59

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hollow corridor. Marble and stone reverberated with the sound, amplifying the tension and fear that shrouded the runner in an almost tangible aura. The papers in his hand fluttered with each pump of his arm, every slap of his shoe against the smooth-tiled floor. When he reached his destination he slammed the door open without any consideration for the clandestine matters already being discussed within.

"Sir!"

All eyes turned to him, but only one man spoke. "What is it, Paul?"

"It's SG-1, sir…" The man was out of breath, from both exertion and growing dread.

A hand propped up a grizzled chin, wearied by the events of the past year. "You've located them?"

But the runner's head shook in a negative. "No, sir… But they were telling the truth."

"The truth? About what?"

A rushed, shallow breath. "Everything, sir."

The older man waited for an elaboration, which was quick in coming.

"NASA just picked up an unidentified object on their deep space telemetry." A hand offered the papers it had been clutching. "Several objects, sir. Coming in fast, and in formation."

"A fleet," the weathered jaw uttered. "We believe it's this Ba'al character?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it seems that we can expect trouble. What do we have in way of defense?"

"The excavation of the Stargate in Antarctica was completed three weeks ago, sir."

"Is it operational?"

"No. Our scientists have barely scratched the surface. We're months away from being able to control it."

Tired eyes closed, a hundred bad decisions came back to bite him in the ass. "Would SG-1 fare better?"

"Absolutely." The response was quick and sure. But what followed was not. "But we have no idea where they are."

Silence reigned for a long moment, before a third voice dared to speak. "I may be able to help with that, gentlemen."

The President of the United States turned his gaze towards the speaker. "You been keeping secrets from me, Hank?"

General Landry took a step closer, into a shaft of light that momentarily dispelled the shadows that disguised his features. "I have no idea where SG-1 is, sir. But I believe I know someone who does."

Hayes nodded, the motion heavy and deliberate. "Find 'em, Hank. We're gonna need their help on this one."

Landry accepted the order without a word. He didn't bother to point out that not a single one of those three had any reason to want to help this planet. And if they didn't agree to help, then this world was on the precipice of losing everything it had ever known. Just like SG-1.

* * *

Jack wasn't surprised when his phone rang in the dead of night. He wasn't _not_ surprised either. He was apathetic to the event altogether, and it wasn't until it rang a second and third time that he finally got around to answering it. Stumbling around the table littered with pictures and beer cans. It was difficult to see in the dark interior of his apartment, but he didn't care. He didn't feel the pain of a stubbed toe, or his throbbing headache exacerbated by the shrill insistence of the late-night caller.

"What?" he demanded, his tone hard.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

"You're asking me? You're supposed to know who you're calling at three AM. What the hell do you want?"

If the speaker was shocked by the rude response, he didn't show it. The voice introduced himself as Major Paul Davis, and without overture explained the situation. Bitterness festered in the pit of Jack's stomach, first at the recollection that Paul Davis had been party to the ruse that had ruined his life, then at the presumption that Jack actually gave a rat's ass about the Air Force and its Generals.

But as Davis continued, and the situation sank in, his anger faded back into the void of indifference. They needed SG-1, and Landry was sure Jack knew where they were. The time for subterfuge was over, he was told. He returned it with a growling moment of resistance.

"If Landry wants to know where to find SG-1, then he can do his own goddamn groveling."

He hung up the phone with a careless toss. It didn't quite reach the ringer. But that didn't matter. His cell phone was buzzing by the time he'd slumped back onto his couch, beer in hand. Again, he waited until it was clear they wouldn't be giving up their endeavor, before flipping the phone open.

Landry was speaking before the phone touched his ear. Jack vaguely listened to words about court martial, insubordination, and treason for a moment before he snapped the phone shut again. The next time the phone rang, it did so twice as long as the first time. _Then_ he answered it, again without a greeting.

"Jack…" Hank's voice was now deflated, muted with fear and dread. "We need them. And they need us."

"Yeah, like a knife in the back," he responded.

"If you don't surrender all information regarding their location, you face jail time."

"Don't care," Jack delivered bluntly. "And neither do you, if the universe really is going ape-shit like they said it would."

"Jack…"

"Bite me, Hank. You fucked yourselves royally when you turned on them." On her. But then, he wasn't really innocent in that, either.

But Landry remained dogged. "Jack, there's more at stake here than you realize."

"Aw hell, Hank, they know the stakes better than anyone else on Earth. Can it with the platitudes." _Did they think he was an idiot?_ "They warned you, Hank. They warned you, and you shut them up. Explain to me why you think they're going to do a goddamn thing to help you?"

There was a measure of silence. "Because they're SG-1."

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

But now his mind was working, and Jack couldn't see the point in keeping the secret any longer. In fact, the dark part of his soul wondered if this was the opening that SG-1 had been waiting for. Maybe they'd resigned themselves to living the rest of their lives out here in this timeline.

Either way, this world was going down, and he had one chance to tip the balance in his favor.

He pulled in a long, deliberate breath. "There's a cabin in Minnesota…"


	60. Chapter 60

Mere hours later, Jack had learned he'd only been partly correct. Only two of SG-1 had been at the cabin. Samantha had been nowhere to be found, her companions as clueless to her location as the rest of the world. A report of a trucker who'd picked up a hitchhiker pointed them towards Detroit, and so Jack had been drafted to pick up the trail.

Not because he had any particular skill in urban tracking, but because when the computer nerds on base finally found something to pinpoint her location, he would be the only person with any chance of getting her to listen. He knew it, the feds knew it… even her friends knew it.

He didn't know what he was going to say. He didn't know if she would even look him in the eye, let alone hear him out. But when a call to his cell phone alerted him, he felt a rush of adrenaline as someone excitedly rattled away in his ear.

"We got lucky, sir! We got a hit off General Carter's credit card at a grocery store ten blocks north of your location!"

"We're looking for _Colonel_ Carter," Jack observed, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "Not her father."

"An American Airlines manifest has General Carter on a flight to San Diego, 30,000 miles over Nevada. This has got to be her!"

Even before the tech finished speaking Jack was sprinting down the street, his focus on his quarry. He didn't feel the pain of his busted knees, or the thump of his rapid heartbeat. He'd grown numb to that long ago. All he felt was the electric surge that came with the prospect of seeing her, one last time.

He caught up to her just in time to see her loading several paper bags into the back of small grey car. He didn't know if it was hers—how could it be, if she'd been on the run?—but he honestly didn't care. He slowed his approach, giving her time finish as he caught his breath. But she turned too soon and caught sight of him, in all his exhausted glory.

He froze the instant she did, her blue eyes wide and restless beneath her frames. They darted to either side of him, and a brief scan of the parking lot assured her that there were no lurking thugs. Jack's gut twisted at the knowledge he had been the one to put that fear in her. Because the last time he'd taken her by surprise, she'd ended up in a federal prison. As a lab rat.

When he took a step forward, she moved away, matching the pace. He stopped, and then she did, her shoulders tight with wariness and apprehension. But she wasn't fleeing, which was almost reassuring. Almost.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

She didn't respond. She didn't react. The mask she wore reminded him that she wasn't the woman he'd come to know; he wasn't the man she'd married, either. Especially not now. But the familiarity he still felt cut through the dark cloud fogging his mind, allowing him to see the chasm stretched dizzingly between them.

"Ba'al's here," he said bluntly. No pretense, no fanfare or overture. Just the cold truth. "Orbital telemetry has detected half a dozen warships, and dozens of smaller vessels. An armada."

Pale lips thinned into a mirthless smile. "Well, I wish I could say I'm surprised," she uttered dully. "Except that we told you this would happen. We all did."

"I know," he returned honestly. "And they do too. That's why they're asking for your help."

She scoffed, a sound that was lost to the constant hustle of the city around them. "Help. Now." Pearly teeth bared in a humorless grin. "That's rich. Really."

She turned away, presumably to leave, but Jack used the opportunity to close the distance, until only a few feet separated them. She was so close, he could reach out and touch her, and yet—and yet she was so far, he might as well be miles from her. She avoided his gaze, but he knew she was acutely aware of every move he made.

"Samantha…" His voice trailed off, and in the quiet that followed Jack heard a strange, but distinctive sound. A warbling, high pitched and fast, sweeping close and low over the skyscrapers above. Jack's head swiveled, looking quickly over his shoulder and spying the oddly shaped flyer zooming towards them. His eyes grew wide, and by the time his mind comprehended what he was looking at, it had passed them and continued on, rapidly growing into a small dot amidst the smog, a F-16 hot on its tail.

He glanced at the Colonel, and registered her calm visage as she peered against the sunlight, following the ship's path through the air. There was no shock, no fear. Only solemn recognition. She'd seen one of them before, he realized—possibly dozens. But he couldn't read the thoughts behind her even gaze, and his voice didn't tear her eyes away from the shrinking chase.

"You're one of three people on the planet who knows what that is," he said, watching her carefully. "One of three people who knows how to defeat these guys." He watched her carefully. "What are you going to do about it?"

Blue eyes stared off into the distance, almost absently. But when she responded, her voice was grounded, even-toned, and heavy with intent.

"Let them come."


	61. Chapter 61

"Let them come?" Sam could hear the shock in his voice, the disbelief. It sort of amused her. He thought he knew her better than that.

" _Let them come?_ Is that really all you have to say?"

She turned towards him, but when she moved it was to close the tailgate of the rental car, not to focus on him. She didn't even look at him. He was so close, maybe too close, and she knew she should feel something.

But she didn't. She couldn't. The only thing that registered in her mind was the lurking shadow of disappointment. Disappointment in her, and in himself. She had a feeling it was a disappointment that had nothing to do with the words that had just come out of her mouth.

"What did you expect, Colonel?" she delivered. Her blasé tone transformed her voice into something she almost didn't recognize. Again, she knew she was supposed to feel something, maybe surprise or shock, but she didn't. "Undying fealty to your government? Some speech about the sanctity of human life?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing his features color at her words, the guilt that washed over him. He knew as well as she did that she had no reason to ally herself with this government, and that a speech about the value of human life would fall on deaf ears. _Just look at what they did to you,_ a tiny voice murmured in the back of her mind. _Clearly, they don't care an ounce for anything besides what would benefit them._

The jumbled memories of a too-white room and the rough straps of that hospital bed ignited the spark of rage in her gut, reinforcing her desire to do nothing. Nothing to help this world, and nothing to change the fate that awaited them. They'd reaped what they'd sowed. That was all there was too it.

"You're on your own," she said finally, reaching into her pocket for her keys. Her fingertips brushed the familiar handle of her father's knife, and almost as if he'd seen it in her coat, Jack spoke.

"And what about your dad? Huh? What about him, and your mom?" She froze, and he moved an inch closer. "Are you really going to abandon them without trying to help them?"

Her eyes narrowed, and when she took a forceful step forward, Jack took one back. He wasn't used to her. Not this way. He had never seen her on the precipice of rage. Her Jack had, but not this one.

" _You_ sentenced them to die," she delivered firmly. "You and your chain of command. You signed their death warrants when you refused to listen to us, when you refused to let us fix the timeline. _You_ forfeited their lives when you decided you'd rather have a lie than an ally."

She held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged as the anger faded back into the nothingness that had filled since she'd whispered a farewell to her father. "In my world, they're already dead. I said my goodbyes a long time ago."

She turned to leave, but stopped in her tracks when a solid hand curled around her arm—not pulling her around, but simply halting her. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his breath. He tingled against her skin, even through the thick layers between them.

"I've failed you." His voice was solemn, but so raw that it took Sam by surprise. It wasn't fear that gripped him now, but something else entirely. "I know that. I failed you, the whole world failed you."

Sam turned to face him, and her eyes locked on his in a fathomless gaze. "You have no reason to give a shit about this world. Fuck this world."

She froze, doubt gripping her as completely as fury had a moment ago. If his superiors had wanted him to convince her to help them, she wondered if this was the way they'd intended for him to do it. It certainly fell under the guise of reverse psychology. But there was something dark in his gaze that scared her, because she'd seen it once before.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice low.

Jack didn't respond, and that in itself was telling enough. Something was there, and she refused to let it go. He wanted her to help her, but there was something he wasn't telling her. Something horrible. "Jack—"

"Charlie's gone."

Her heart stuttered in her chest, a vise clamping down on the organ with an impervious grip. She wanted to believe that it meant Charlie was simply absent, run off somewhere to join a cult or to elope with some girl his parents didn't approve of. But in those two words Jack's careful guise slipped, and she could see the torrent of emotion that threatened to sweep him away.

She pulled in a shaky breath, her eyes burning with sudden tears. The grief she felt was not for Jack alone, but for herself as well. She had known Charlie for only a few short months, but she counted herself lucky for it. He was a good person, a good son, and he above all others deserved the chance for a full life. And in some sick parody of her own timeline, this Charlie's life had been dangled tantalizingly in front of him, then pulled out from under him in another senseless, violent death.

"How?" Her voice spoke to something in Jack, and his hand on her arm relaxed slightly. Perhaps in appreciation, perhaps in relief, or maybe even in grief. She'd never know for sure.

He swallowed audibly, before speaking. "Drunk driver on campus, eighteen days ago."

Fate was as cruel as any Goa'uld. She didn't ask for any more details; she didn't want to know them. Even in her own timeline she hadn't sought any more information than the little she'd gleaned in her first year at the SGC. That had been more than enough. She treasured the happy memories Jack had shared with her, but there was no desire to know how it all ended.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked softly. This time, it was she who sought his gaze, and this time it was his that wavered. "Saving the planet won't bring him back."

"I know," Jack said, his voice sticking in his throat. "I don't want you to save this world."

Sam blinked. "I don't understand…"

Jack's free hand came up to brace her shoulder, which even now ached with the cold. But it was bearable, and now it barely registered as Sam tried to puzzle through the games he was playing. Was he here on behalf of his orders, or was he here for something else? What was it he was asking her to do?

Brown eyes focused on hers, clear and fierce through the shadows lurking in their depths. "I want you to fix it."

Sam's breath caught in her chest. "What?"

"I'm assuming you have a plan in mind?" She stared at him. "What you would do if you somehow got access to the Stargate?"

Her head nodded, almost of its own volition. She hadn't expected this. She'd given it up as a possibility. She couldn't revisit that hope. Could she?

"This is your chance to get through the Stargate, if they managed to recover the one in Antarctica. I don't know if they did—" Her heart fell just a little, and it was only then she realized it had even lifted. "But this chance won't come again. I can promise you that."

But they wouldn't let them through the gate alone. They would send troops with them, to make sure there was no effort made to change the timeline. Sam was sure of it. The people pulling the strings were cruel, not stupid.

"Samantha—"

"Sam," she countered swiftly, "my name is Sam. I'm not her—"

"I know." The answer was curt, with a hint of bitterness she wasn't sure was meant for her. There was regret in his eyes, and chagrin that he'd allowed himself to slip. "I know you're not her. But the Samantha I'm talking to now isn't the Mission Commander. The Samantha I need is the woman who said she loved me."

"Don't. Don't twist—"

"I'm not twisting anything. Not anymore. I don't have any reason to lie to you." She believed him, though she still wanted to hate him for it. "I know that woman I knew is gone. You remember who you were, and that means I'm out of luck. But even if you can't love me…" His voice trailed off, and cracked when he whispered, "You still love _him_ , don't you?"

She hesitated, a lump in her throat, and nodded. Like he said, there was no reason to lie.

"Then give us a chance. Do what you have to do. Go back to him. Maybe Charlie wasn't supposed to live a full life, maybe that just wasn't in the cards. But at least in your world I have you. Even that much is more than what I have now."

What could she say to that? Brown eyes searched hers, and she struggled to think. But she couldn't. Her usually ordered thoughts were chaotic and stilted in her mind, and this time it wasn't because of any drug.

When she finally stepped away, re-establishing the distance between them, he saw the decision in her eyes. His own gaze brightened minutely.

"I'm not promising anything," she warned. "I won't. But I'll listen to what they have to say."

It was all she could do. Jack didn't even know if they had a Stargate. For all either of them knew, SG-1 was wanted in the command bunker for a purely advisory purpose. But she'd listen—she owed this man that much. And god help them if they tried to hold her against her will… again.

Jack pulled back, his hands falling from her arms to be tucked into his jacket pockets. He nodded, though when the fervor of his plea faded his eyes were dulled with the darkness of a man having outlived his son.

"Thank you." She didn't respond. She merely watched as slowly moved backwards away from her. "And for what it's worth… I'm sorry."

And then he finally turned from her, his head bowed. A split second of indecision gripped her, before Sam called out after him. "Jack—"

He looked back at her, and she tried to ignore the forlorn pallor of his features. "Yeah."

"If… If we don't make it. If we fail, and Ba'al comes…" His eyes remained fixed on her, and somehow that made it more difficult to finish her thought. But it had to be done.

She took a deep breath. "If they come, don't be a hero. End it. End it before he does." Something glinted in his eyes, as if his curiosity was peaked. She didn't explain any further. "And make sure it sticks."

His brow furrowed then, and she knew he was confused. "Sticks how?"

She hesitated. "Think you could get your hands on some C-4?"

The impact of her words was instantaneous. His eyes widened, then hardened with realization as he acknowledged what she meant. This was neither the time nor place for her to explain about sarcophagi, or Ba'al's love-to-hate relationship with the infamous Jack O'Neill. All she knew was that this man—for all his shortcomings—did not deserve the fate of a thousand deaths.

Jack nodded, accepting her advice and promising to fulfill it.

"Did they apprehend Janet?" she asked.

His head shook no. "Last I heard she was still at the cabin. No point locking her up now, I guess." Not when the world was about to be destroyed.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you joined her," she suggested. "That way…" That way they wouldn't have to be alone. And then maybe she could rest easier knowing that if she failed, neither one of them would face death by themselves.

And again, she was rewarded with a nod.

When her gaze turned expectant, he silently handedher a cell phone, his fingers already dialing a number. She accepted it, and lifted to her ear. She waited for the standard greeting, then humorlessly delivered one of her own.

"This is Colonel Samantha Carter. I need to speak to your commanding officer."

But before any response was given she heard the sound of squealing tires behind her, and though her stomach clenched at the sound of it, she looked over her shoulder to see a black SUV now stationary on the side of the road, its door open and a black-suited man standing beside it. Waiting for her.

She took a deep breath, and sent one last look towards Jack. He tried to give a half-smile, but couldn't even get that far. "Good luck," he said softly.

She didn't respond. She met his gaze a moment longer, torn between returning the sentiment and offering something more personal. In the end, she opted for nothing at all. She turned and began moving towards the SUV, groceries and rental car forgotten.

Below the sounds of the city, she thought she heard him speak again, but she wasn't sure, and so she didn't pause. But the words haunted her steps, and she let them wash over her body in an icy chill.

"Goodbye, Sam."


	62. Chapter 62

The nonstop trip to the bowels of the presidential bunker passed in a blur. Sam's mind worked in overdrive, speeding through potential plans and discarding them as improbable. She was trying to anticipate the moves of a government she didn't know, she didn't trust, and she refused to assume anything besides the worst. In the end, she abandoned her efforts in favor of staring blankly out the window.

She refused to admit she'd decided to help this world. She had yet to find any sense of attachment to this planet. The first time she'd saved the planet with SG-1, she'd violated direct orders in some intrinsic need to do the right thing. But there was no right thing here. Not now.

She didn't know if the difference was with the world, or within herself.

Her haze didn't lift until two familiar figures stepped into her field of vision, at the far end of a subterranean hallway. They froze, and so did she. She'd left them in the lurch, and she hadn't expected to see them so soon. She knew it hadn't been right, the way she'd disappeared. It shouldn't have happened… but a lot of things shouldn't have happened. They'd happened anyway.

Sam glanced at Cam, silently acknowledging him, but her eyes quickly found Daniel's and stayed there. On wooden legs she closed the distance between them, and after a moment Daniel met her halfway. She hugged him around the shoulders, accepting his embrace with an eagerness the startled her.

The moment his palms flattened against her back, pulling her closer, Sam knew just how much Daniel had felt her disappearance. How much he had worried, and what it had taken for him to not chase her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His chin dug into her shoulder as he nodded in return. "I know." Of course he understood. Once upon a time Daniel had been naïve. Now, he was hardened. Not jaded, he could never be jaded. But he was not blind to the hard truths that seemed to govern their lives. "You okay?" he asked, pulling back to look at her more carefully. She didn't want to know what he saw.

"Fine," she uttered softly. She looked up at Cam, and reached out to him. His hand grasped hers, squeezing gently in both query and reassurance. "Hi, Cam."

"Hey, Sam."

None of them were surprised at their reunion. They all knew why they were here. They all knew the challenge that faced them now, should they choose to accept it. Sam gave a mental eyeroll to herself. _Mission Impossible._ Nice. Jack would be proud. Jack and Teal'c both.

The three of them allowed themselves to be ushered deeper into the facility. Sam couldn't deny that the close quarters put her on edge. But it was Daniel's shoulder that bumped hers when he felt the tension build in her frame, and Cam's heavy footsteps that matched hers pace for pace. She wasn't alone.

This time, they faced hell together.

* * *

Henry Hayes was not a stupid man. He'd didn't get into office on his good looks alone. He saw what people needed, and he provided them with what they needed. They needed jobs—he made more jobs. They needed a war—he gave them a war.

They needed a hero—he gave them a goddamn hero.

But he was not the only one who felt the chill of awe that settled over the room when their three guests entered. Their legend didn't belong to this world, but their presence was tangible. They held themselves proudly, their eyes hard and observant with the glint of dark experience. But there was pride in their stature, a solidarity that surrounded them and set them apart from the chaos of the control room.

He stepped forward to meet them, but their features didn't brighten with interest until they saw the man at his right shoulder. He was most surprised to see the difference in Colonel Carter's demeanor when her expression lifted into a smile of surprise.

"Sir!" she said, her voice warm. "It's good to see you."

For a moment, she was a different person. And then the man opened his mouth. "If you say so."

Samantha Carter's features blinked, and in the next moment a mask of cold indifference chilled her features. Her hands clasped in front of her, but Henry didn't believe for an instant that she was at ease.

"I'm glad you decided to come," he started, infusing his voice with as much warmth as he thought he could get away with. He waited for them to respond, and it was a long cold moment before the woman crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"You sent Jack O'Neill because you knew he'd get me to listen," she delivered forcefully, her tone screaming what she thought of their tactics. "I'm listening. Start talking, or I'm gone."

His explanation of the situation was brief—they knew what they were dealing with. They were the only people on the planet who did. In fact it was Mitchell, the man who was never born, who explained the vessel that had done a sweep over the nation that day.

"And it's nothing compared to what comes next." That came from Carter.

Henry tried not to feel a surge of disquiet when he discerned a gleam in her startling blue eyes; a gleam that did not bode well for him and his people.

But he covered it with an unimpressed cross of his arms as he sat back on the nearest desk. "And what comes next?"

"Slavery, death… more slavery, more death." Jackson was enjoying this a little too much. But Henry sensed there was something else staining his tone, and the flick of his bespectacled eyes towards his female companion told the President all he needed to know.

Samantha Carter was pissed, and Daniel Jackson was wary. Hayes filed the information away for later. "Look, if you want to say I told you so, go ahead and get it off your chest. But then you can do one of two things. You can help, or you can leave."

"How dare you."

The voice was cool, steely with a razor's edge. Henry Hayes met the hard glare of Colonel Samantha Carter, and felt a shiver race down his spine.

"Are you really that conceited? So self-involved that you can sit there and know what our decision will be? After everything you've done?"

Her voice had dropped an octave, and the tension in her frame fairly vibrated. And Henry couldn't deny it. He'd read the brief on this SG-1, and he knew that the instinct to help was so ingrained they wouldn't be able to walk away.

"I've seen that kind of behavior before," she continued, her eyes flashing. Hayes waited for her to elaborate. "The Goa'uld."

Hayes scoffed, but couldn't deny the thought that maybe she'd cracked. "If you're saying I have a snake in my head, I'm afraid you're mistaken. According to you yourselves, the Earth has been devoid of Goa'uld for centuries."

"Actually," Jackson interjected, pulling the attention back to himself, "there've been several Goa'uld stranded on Earth. They've just maintained a relatively low profile…"

"And even they share the basic qualifying characteristics that define the Goa'uld as a race," Carter supplied, her eyes stony. "Self-proclaimed omniscience, unnecessary cruelty, and the incurable need to ruin lives."

"I'm not a Goa'uld."

"No," came the terse agreement. "At least they have the benefit of having a parasite attached their brainstems." Blue eyes narrowed at him. "What's your excuse?"

Hayes stared, unwilling to take the bait. But not answering was victory for her in itself, and her features morphed into a mask of snide superiority. She held the cards here, and they all knew it. Without SG-1, Earth had no chance of fending off this threat, and without her, SG-1 was only at half-staff.

"You and Ba'al might actually get along well. Maybe you'll think you can strike up a treaty with him," she guessed. "Don't worry, he'll be pleasant and charming—even when he's torturing you for the hell of it. If you're lucky, he'll just kill you the once and be done with it. But when he brings you back to life, and suddenly you're nothing but a slab of meat, strapped down and cut open with poison running through your veins…"

Hayes saw her lips curl into a smile that could curdle blood. He didn't know the details of the tests that had been performed on her, but no doubt she found satisfaction in the similarities of his potential future. "At _that_ point you can find comfort in the fact you brought it on yourself."

This time, Hayes wasn't so sure his mask of confident surety held strong. He certainly didn't feel like it had. Her words shook him to the core, and he was struck by the thought that despite his status as the preeminent political figure in the nation—in the world, even—this woman had seen far more impressive in her lifetime… and far worse. He was unremarkable to her save for the fact that it was his signature that took her life away from her.

Colonel Carter waited a short moment as his thoughts ran amok, then pulled back, letting the sneer fall away as her mask slid back into place. "Good luck."

With that, she turned and walked away.

* * *

It took a long moment for Daniel to come out of his stunned stupor. A cuff on the shoulder from Cam helped.

He met the President's eyes, silently ordering him to stand by. He chased after Sam in a hopping run, his prosthesis stuttering ever so slightly. As good as it was, it wasn't the real thing. But he jerked Sam around with a tug on her arm, and only barely managed to dodge the reflexive elbow to his sternum.

"Sam, Sam, stop please—"

"No, Daniel." Her voice was cold, but at least she paused to face him. "They're on their own."

"That's not fair, Sam."

Her eyes blazed. "Neither is what they did to me. But life's a bitch, isn't it?"

"Sam—"

"No! They blow us off a year ago, and now when the shit hits the fan we're suddenly god's gift to the planet? They want our help so we're supposed to snap to and forget the fact that they've done nothing but manipulate us for their own ends? Not a fucking chance."

Daniel blinked, knowing in his gut that she was right. But his heart reminded him that there was more at stake. "Sam, if we can get to the Stargate…" He took a deep breath. "That's all we need, Sam. If we can get to the Stargate, we have the chance to fix everything…"

But a mirthless scoff escaped her, as her eyes lifted to the ceiling. "Fix what, Daniel?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Do I? Because even if we pull the usual miracle out of thin air, then what? We won't have a place in our timeline, Daniel. There'll be another set of us going along with our lives as if nothing ever happened, and we'll have hide on some forgotten planet in some corner of the galaxy, and that's if the entropic cascade failure doesn't get us first."

"You don't know that for sure…"

"Then what's the alternative? We somehow manage to jump back into the timeline the moment we left it? How would that be any better?"

"It'd beat the hell out of hiding away somewhere!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because he'd still be dead!"

Her voice hadn't risen above a furious growl, but the agony in her voice arrested Daniel mid-thought. And then it all fell into place. It didn't matter what happened… She would never see her husband again. She would never be able to live the life they'd waited so long to have.

"He'd still be dead, Daniel," she repeated softly. "And I don't know if I want to live with that."

Daniel let a brief silence pass, as her fingertips brushed her tears away, and her feet shuffled as though the movement would hide the heartbreak from his gaze. It didn't, but he shoved it away all the same. In the meantime, he steeled himself for what he had to do.

"So what?" he asked.

Blue eyes jerked up to meet his in shock, then anger. He forged ahead to keep his courage up. There was a narrow window of opportunity before he broke down himself. "So what?" he reiterated. "People lose their loved ones all the time. You're not special in that, Sam."

Her mouth opened, no doubt to rip him a new one, but he cut her off before she could say a word.

"And yeah, you've got regrets. So do the six billion people on this planet who didn't have any part of what happened to you. And as much as you might hate the President—as much as you _should_ hate him—he didn't kill Jack. Ba'al did. And now Jack's murderer is looking to destroy the planet we devoted our lives to protect. You're going to let Ba'al win out of spite?"

She didn't answer, but her gaze slid askance, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his logic. "What would Jack think?"

She snorted in response. "Oh, please! Jack would be the first to tell these people to shove it."

Daniel almost smiled. It was true.

"Maybe," he conceded. "But he always had you to help him see reason."

Blue eyes froze for a moment, the closed. He had her. Jack might have allowed himself to succumb to his first knee-jerk reaction, but only because he had a trio of angels on his shoulders, providing the points of view he needed to make a decision.

"How many times did we save Chulak, only to have its people curse our names for killing their lord Apophis, hm? How many times did we lose people trying to rescue people who didn't want to be helped?" Daniel took a step forward, gripping her arms in his hands. "We did it again and again, because we knew it was the right thing to do. Saving this planet is the right thing to do, Sam. Even if it isn't _our_ Earth."

In that moment, Sam hated Daniel more than anything. He was asking her to live without either Jack—without her Jack, and without the Jack she'd known in this world. He wanted her to be alone, to give up everything that ever mattered. For what? For a planet so self-involved they would manipulate her into living as a dead woman?

But he was right. Most of the people on this planet had nothing to do with what happened. There were billions of people who'd done nothing but live the lives they'd been given. Did they really deserve to face the horrors that awaited them? To be subjected to death and slavery…and then more slavery, more death. Daniel had summed it up well.

Her thoughts traveled to the cabin in Minnesota, where Jack and Janet would make their final stand. Did they deserve to die so ignoble a death? Her heart knew the truth, for all the resentment towards this Jack that lingered within her. She met Daniel's gaze, and found nothing but warm understanding. He knew her too well, and knew how seductive this passive revenge would be. And no matter her decision, she knew he would do the right thing. With her or without her, he would be going through the 'gate.

She looked back into the bunker, towards the shadowed forms of a President and his staff. Seeing the man, so crisp in his suit with a tiny flag pin, she felt the urge to just walk away. She didn't owe them anything. But then the glint of bronzed metal flashed in the darkness, and she remembered who else was awaiting her decision.

A hard glance at Daniel told him she hadn't made up her mind, that she wasn't making any promises either way just yet, before she turned and strode back into the darkness. Hayes stepped forward to receive the decision she'd seemed to come to, but she pushed by him with none-too-gentle bump of her shoulder. She didn't stop until she was directly in front of the man who had spent more than a decade being the anchor that brought them home time and time again.

"Did you know, sir?"

General Hammond looked at her with guarded eyes, carefully waiting to see where she was going. It was the look he had given dozens of politicians and skeevy NID colonel's, and it was all she could do to keep her voice from cracking. "Did you know what they were going to do? Did you go along with it?"

He didn't respond right away, and she kept going. "I know you don't know me, General. But I do know that you knew _her_." This time, her voice did crack, and a tear slid down her cheek. "You were friends with my father for longer than I've been alive… I know you knew her. So I need to know if _you_ had any part in this." She let her head fall, and she felt a falling tear brush her nose as it descended to splash against the linoleum. Shame almost made itself known, but the need to know eclipsed all else. "I need to know..."

She was startled when a warm hand cupped her arm, its touch gentle. Her eyes lifted to meet the familiar gaze of a man she'd known all her life. The guardedness was gone, leaving her with nothing but the effusive glow of General George Hammond.

"I did not know," he told her, the familiar drawl warming her heart. "I should have dug deeper when your father called me, worried that you'd gone missing. And for that I am truly sorry. I owed him better than that—I owed _you_ better than that. I was kept in the dark anything that transpired before and after the televised conference. Undoubtedly because my affection for Mission Commander Carter was a poorly-kept secret."

Sam pulled in a breath that stung her tightening throat as his hand lifted to cup her cheek. A callused thumb brushed away a tear that trailed its way down her cheek.

"I held you the day you were born," he continued, "and I knew right then and there that you would grow do great things. I felt it in my bones. And though it broke my heart, I was never more proud of you than when you made the sacrifice. When you got your crew home."

For the first time, Sam was both the Mission Commander she wasn't and the Colonel she was. The first time she was neither a dead hero nor a live threat. Part of her wondered if the General truly understood what she was, how she'd come to be here. But it didn't matter in this man's eyes... and that made all the difference.

Sam pulled in a shuddering breath, her lungs seeming to shake with the effort. Her throat burned, but there was peace in it. Her own hand came up to cover his, pressing it closer to her skin as her eyes closed. Cam shuffled in place behind her, but she ignored him. He didn't know General Hammond, and it was to his loss. Her eyes opened, and looked into the same gaze she'd trusted for so many years.

"I would have killed anyone who would do harm to _any_ Samantha Carter," he told her, not an ounce of falsity in his tone. "And I think they knew that."

She held his gaze moment longer, before a solemn nod bobbed her head. She gave his hand a brief squeeze of gratitude, before letting the emotion go. She turned back to the three men watching, waiting.

"All right."


	63. Chapter 63

Russia was cold. Not quite as cold as Antarctica—as Sam knew first-hand—but cold enough that it made her shoulder ache and her leg stiffen. She swallowed both discomforts with the mask of a seasoned officer, and stubbornly forged into the Russian complex with the rest of her team, only to find nothing more than an upright Stargate. No networking, no wiring or computers to help it dial in place of the DHD—which they were also lacking.

It seemed almost kismet that Teal'c would show up when he did. Sam almost cried at the familiar tingle that ran up her spine when he was near enough, but even that had been cut short by the abrupt arrival of rival Jaffa. No idea whose, but if Teal'c thought they were a threat, then that was all she needed. Which was how she ended up here, at a foreign control board she'd never seen before—which was probably older than she was—frantically scrolling through the catalogue of solar flares.

But even as the firefight started, not a single one of those flares would do them any good. Too soon, too far, WAY too far… She could barely believe her luck when she found one that was only ten years from their target date. It was almost too good to be true. Cam's complaint aside, she knew it would likely be the only chance they had. She queued up the Stargate, but she'd barely heard the clunk of the first chevron encoding when there was flash of pain, and then nothing at all.

Her body crumpled under the force of the staff blast, and even before she hit the ground she somehow sensed the crunch of damaged vertebrae. It wouldn't matter; she'd be dead long before she mourned the onset of paraplegia. She heard the Stargate engage, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Cam dive into the wormhole. She'd forgotten to tell him he'd probably end up under a dozen feet of sand, since the 'gate would probably still be buried in Egypt. Hopefully the kawoosh would turn most of it into glass for him.

She would die here. And that was okay. Daniel was somewhere far below. Perhaps he was still falling. Part of her contemplated the feasibility of her pulling herself over that same edge, taking one final flight before meeting the bitter end. But a groan from somewhere off to her right reminded her that she one teammate still living.

Maybe, between the two of them, they had the strength to take out one more Goa'uld before fading into oblivion.

* * *

The pain was a welcome friend. Teal'c felt the dark arms of death encroaching, and he was glad for it. Too long had he played servant to a god in return for freedom. But for what kind of freedom? Freedom had been promised, for many long years now, but he had not seen a shred of it for himself. Bratac's voice reminded him that the Goa'uld were not to be trusted. Even now, the larvae within him writhed, seeking to abandon its womb, leave its Jaffa to die.

Perhaps that was why he had trusted these humans. These of the Tauri who had spoken words of hope with a certainty Teal'c could not claim for himself. He was very much uncertain, even after seeing this structure, so foreign in its design. Clearly, his lord Ba'al had kept secrets—not a startling concept. But in seeing the last of the Tauri fly through the Chappa'i, he felt something akin to hope flare in his heart.

He leaned back against the stone beneath him, ready to meet his end. But he was pulled from his growing peace when a hand brushed against his. He lifted his zatnikatel in reflex, only to pause when a pale head lifted with a groan of pain beside his hip. The female. She was injured—most grievously so, given the long smears of blood that trailed behind her back towards the controls of the device.

How she had found the strength to do so, he did not know. He had seen the most stalwart Jaffa reduced to whimpers after sustaining such wounds. But she hefted herself closer to him with a final pull of her arms, bringing her head level with his chest.

"Teal'c…" Her elbow levered her shoulders higher, so that she may inspect his own wounds. "Oh, Teal'c."

He tried to warn her of the nudging from his primta, but he could not find the breath. There was too much damage within his chest. Sensing a warm and able host, the symbiote emerged from its pouch, hesitated barely a moment before launching itself at the woman.

Teal'c watched with hooded eyes as a frail hand surged upwards and snatched the primta from the air, mere inches from her face. Her head had jerked at the sudden threat, but the frail hand was no longer so frail as she gripped the serpentine body with a firm grip.

"Sorry, Junior," he heard her mutter darkly, before she flung the squealing Goa'uld away, sending it plunging into the dark abyss below.

But the action seemed to have expended the last of her energy, for in the next moment she had collapsed, partially on top of him, struggling to pull her next breath. Still, she spoke. "Sorry this had to happen, Teal'c."

The rumble of her voice against his chest seemed to give him the energy he had not had before, as he answered her. "It was by my own will I joined you in your quest. And apologies have no place here… they should exist solely between friends."

"We are friends."

Somehow, he did not feel any ire at such presumption. "I do not know you," he returned, as though to a child.

But it was she who scoffed at him, as though he were the youth. "Yeah, you do." Her breath warmed his armor briefly as she exhaled shortly—a laugh, perhaps.

He thought to reprimand her, to correct her. But his tongue remained still, his voice silent. His mind knew that he had never before set eyes upon this woman. She was as foreign to him as any other individual on this world. And yet there was comfort in their contact, as she leaned on him, and if he was not mistaken he could sense the faintest trace of a Goa'uld within her.

The thought that she may be a Goa'uld was dismissed as readily as it came. No Goa'uld would accept its death as readily as this woman, and there was a peace about her that precluded the presence of a Goa'uld.

But though his mind rejected the familiarity this woman and her companions had conveyed towards him, his spirit rose to meet hers. There was a kinship, without reason or sense, but one that he now, at the threshold of death, accepted.

His arm lifted and draped itself lightly over her shoulders. He applied just enough of a gentle pressure to reassure her in her suffering, and he was rewarded with a sigh of contentment as she relaxed even further against him. He relaxed as well, comfortable in the presence of a fellow warrior. But a moment later he felt a movement at his hip, and his head lifted to see her reaching into the pouch at his belt.

Even before her hand withdrew, he knew what she had been seeking. How she knew it was there, he did not know, but he nodded in approval when he saw the familiar shape of a grenade clasped in her fist. "It's okay," she assured him, breathless with the effort to remain conscious. " _Shel kek nem ron_ , Teal'c." His shock was abbreviated by a wet cough that shook him as roughly as it did her.

She was weakening, but he observed the flicker of motion as she activated the pressure trigger. "We die free," she whispered, her hand and the grenade resting on his chest. She would not release it; not until there was no longer breath in her body.

The plea of his people rang true in his heart, and he felt a rush of warmth surge through his dying body as he realized this female was more a warrior than he had recognized. Indeed, he did know her. He knew her well.

His hand wrapped around hers, doubling the grip keeping the grenade secure. Now, it would not trigger until they both were dead. He could only pray it would be long enough for Quetesh to descend through the rings. They would have a fitting death.

" _Dal shakka mel,"_ he returned, his voice low. The phrases meant the same, equally esteemed by his people and their cause. To be free—it was only a breath away. "Together."

They waited, their breaths the only sound in the chamber. They would soon join the corpses that littered the platform of the device. He had almost faded away altogether when he heard the whine of the transport rings, sliding down to deposit their traveler on the designated arm of the platform. He pulled himself back from the brink to look up into the eyes of the soulless queen one last time.

He briefly noticed the lack breath against his armor, the complete stillness in the body lying against his… the lax fingers trapped beneath his hand. The grenade was hidden from sight all the same, but it would not take much to release the trigger. It was almost time.

Quetesh lowered herself to look him in the eye, her features smug and condescending—as all Goa'uld features were. Metal-tipped fingers touched his chin, forcing his head up to meet her gaze. "Perhaps I shall choose you for my First Prime… after all."

A stout denial was close on his lips, but he was silence by a sound from below.

"Va… la…" He had not thought the woman still breathing. But her head moved ever so slightly, as though to raise it if she had had the strength. But despite her weakness, Teal'c saw the false god falter, her sneer stuttering on her features as abrupt surprise registered. For a brief moment, he witnessed a vulnerability that did not belong to any Goa'uld.

 _Nothing_ _of the host survives_.

Now, he wondered.

The woman against his chest gasped for breath, but when she spoke again she could manage little more than a mumble. "Goin'… home…"

She fell silent, and this time, Teal'c knew that she had passed. He was awed. Even in her final moments, she had shown a kind of compassion for a Goa'uld. It was unnatural and yet… admirable. He had not the strength to do the same.

Quetesh regained her wits a moment later, and her hand cruelly grasped the woman's hair, as though to lift her like a doll and drag her to a sarcophagus for her impudence. Teal'c had seen it before; Quetesh could be particularly vengeful when slighted. But he would not allow that to happen. For he had sworn it, in an oath unbreakable by any Free Jaffa.

"I think not, Quetesh," he grunted, his breath no easier in coming than the woman's had been. His vision blackened, and he welcomed it. With the final ounce of his strength, he tugged his hand free of his companion's, allowing the grenade its freedom to fulfill its purpose.

"I… die… free."


	64. Chapter 64

She was in a world of white. It glowed around her, pulsating gently in random swells. Like an ocean.

It was peaceful, and she was relieved. It had been a long time since there had been any kind of peace for her. She wondered if this was what Daniel had experienced when he died. If it was, it was no wonder why he did it so often. Die, that is.

Oh, man. This had better not be some kind of Pre-Ascension 101 class. She had no desire to Ascend. None whatsoever. There was something even better waiting for her.

She kept walking, not knowing where she was going. There was no distinguishing landmarks whatsoever in this blank landscape. Just white. And not white like snow, but white like light. Pure, unadulterated, boring white.

There was no path marked for her… at least none that she could see. But she continued all the same. Her feet knew where to go. She couldn't quite remember what she was looking for, only that it was important, that it would be heaven. Because this wasn't heaven. Not yet. She was still alone.

She didn't know how long she walked, or how far. She didn't get tired, and her feet didn't start to hurt, and she didn't waste any time to rest. She didn't need it. All she needed was to get _there_. Where _there_ would be was as good a guess as anyone's, but it was important. It was everything.

Eventually, the white started to fade. Well, _fade_ wasn't the right word for it. It thinned more than anything else, and if she squinted, she could just barely make out actual color— _white is the presence, not the absence, of all color_ , her mind recalled.

Who the hell cared? It was boring, and the growing diversity of hues urged her to quicken her pace. She did. Soon, the hues took form, and like walking through a faded picture frame she stepped into an actual scene.

Grass tickled the soles of her feet, and the air—so ubiquitous and unremarkable before, in the land of boring white—was suddenly fragrant with the scent of pine and… meat. Cooking meat. Birds sang to her, somewhere off in the woods surrounding her slice of heaven, but she knew it wasn't them she had come here for.

It wasn't for them, or for the pine or the grass… not even the scent of the charcoal grill.

She didn't know what she'd come there for until she saw it—saw him. Smiling brown eyes and a grin that made her toes tingle.

"Welcome home, Sam."

She was home.


	65. Chapter 65

"Yo, Daniel, wait up!"

Colonel Mitchell slammed his locker shut and darted out of the locker room, leaving Teal'c as sole witness to the door's failure to latch. It swung open, revealing the faded photograph taped within. Teal'c inspected it for a brief moment before securing the door himself, silently filing away the fact that Colonel Mitchell more resembled his grandfather's good friend, than he did his grandfather. It was a curious thing, but one that did not bear scrutiny. It was not his place.

He followed his companions down the hall at a more leisurely pace. They were eager to reach O'Neill and Colonel Carter, but Teal'c knew well that their friends would not leave without them. He was proven correct when the entirety of their team merged, several meters from the elevator bay.

Colonel Mitchell was observing the pair most closely, though he attempted to remain inconspicuous, while Daniel Jackson spoke rapidly, and at great length. It seemed that Daniel Jackson had not fully conveyed his thoughts on the planned Taur'i lunar facility. Teal'c had witnessed the birth of the debate on the Tok'ra homeworld, following the execution of the final clone of the false god Ba'al, and it seemed he would bear audience to its conclusion, for O'Neill silenced him with a curt slice of his hand.

"Ack!" O'Neill delivered with his usual impatience. "We're done talking about this, Daniel! The name is the very last detail of the moon base, which means we don't even have to _think_ about it yet!"

"But—"

"We are _not_ calling it the _Icarus_ expedition. Didn't that guy _die_? Don't you think we should name it something more, I dunno... _optimistic_?"

Daniel Jackson did not respond, though he seemed to be fighting a smile, and while there was a finality to the General's tone, Teal'c suspected the debate would arise once more before night's end. Colonel Carter's grin assured him that she too had come to the same conclusion, though it disappeared when O'Neill turned to look at her.

"Can we go yet?" O'Neill's arm was slung casually over her shoulders, and it jostled her gently with an affectionate squeeze. And if Teal'c was not mistaken, he believed the position of her own arm behind the General's back indicated that her left hand was tucked into O'Neill's back pocket. It was a rare display of familiarity between his two friends, and a welcome sight within the halls of the SGC.

"I'm ready," Colonel Carter responded brightly. It was reassuring to see her in good spirits after being denied the opportunity to return to Atlantis. To Teal'c, it confirmed his suspicions as to precisely how much she had missed her true home. "Where do you guys want to go for lunch?"

"Do you still intend to purchase sustenance for all, O'Neill?" Teal'c queried.

O'Neill looked at him warily. "Yeeaahh…"

"I would like to taste the cuisine at a restaurant known as _La Magnifique_ ," he continued.

Colonel Carter's eyes brightened. "Isn't that the new place you told me about, Daniel?"

Daniel Jackson smirked. "Yup. Absolutely."

"Its food has been termed exquisite by the magazine provided by Major Davis… I believe it was entitled _..._ _Zagat_."

"They're usually spot on with their reviews," Colonel Mitchell supplied. "I'm in!"

"So am I!" Daniel Jackson agreed.

O'Neill groaned. "And of course it just so happens to be the most expensive place in town..."

"You _did_ kind of walk into that one, sir," Colonel Carter pointed out. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Come on, Jack," Daniel Jackson argued. "Consider it a special occasion. We got the last of the Ba'als—"

"We think," Colonel Mitchell coughed.

"—and Sam's back from Atlantis. What better reason to celebrate?"

It was an infallible argument, and even O'Neill saw the logic. Particularly when Colonel Carter nudged him in suggestion. "Oh, all right," O'Neill yielded. "But someone else is springing for burgers when it turns out none of you actually like that French froo-froo crap."

And with that, he took his leave, pulling Colonel Carter along with him. She did not offer any resistance. Colonel Mitchell moved to follow, but was stopped by the hand Daniel Jackson placed on his chest. No words were exchanged, but Colonel Mitchell obeyed the signal to wait as O'Neill called for the elevator.

"Carter and I are gonna ride over," O'Neill stated. "We'll meet you there."

Daniel Jackson indicated his understanding, and gave the duo a wave they did not see. Upon their departure, Colonel Mitchell took the opportunity to leaned closer to Daniel Jackson, his voice both pensive and conspiratorial. "You know... I used to have a thing for Sam."

Teal'c lifted an eyebrow. He had not heard this detail before. But Daniel Jackson was less surprised. "Yeah, you and everyone else..." Daniel Jackson regarded Colonel Mitchell with a glance of amusement. "Not that strange, Cam."

Colonel Mitchell's features fell slightly. No doubt he had intended his revelation to cause more disturbance than was received. "Yeah, I guess so."

Daniel Jackson smirked. "You gonna try to make a pass at her?" His tone clearly indicated that he knew the answer to his own question. If asked, Teal'c would agree that the disclosed information was unlikely to give rise to any future conflict. After all, they had been working well together for more than two years and there was no animosity between SG-1's former leaders.

Colonel Mitchell glanced down the corridor at the lingering pair, and the chime of the arriving elevator. "Nah. It was just a thing a long time ago."

He paused, his gaze turning contemplative as he looked back to the linger couple. "Besides, you don't mess with perfection."

Teal'c followed the path of his glance to observe the couple in question. They had stepped into an empty car, and had utilized the privacy to their benefit. Before the elevator doors closed, Teal'c glimpsed a stolen kiss. The arm O'Neill had draped over Collonel Carter's shoulders had curled inward, turning her to face him. Her chest brushed his, and while her left hand remained in his pocket—for it was there, as Teal'c had predicted—her right had risen to rest against his side.

Their lips touched in a gentle moment of tenderness, and Teal'c let his gaze fall to the side. While it did his heart good to see his friends content, such moments were not meant to be witnessed by him. Instead he turned his gaze to his companions, who had similarly found other points of interest as the elevator departed.

Teal'c allowed his features to crease into a close-lipped, but no less pleased smile.

"Indeed."

**_-FIN-_ **


End file.
